


Cry Havoc

by CMD89



Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Other, Post-Frozen (2013), Redeemed Hans, Revolution, The Southern Isles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 00:10:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7291744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CMD89/pseuds/CMD89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stirs of discontent have rippled through the Southern Isles for years, but the sparks of uprising fan into flame as Prince Hans cracks the foundation of the royal family with his Great Shame. Punished, demoralized, and eventually exiled from the only home he's known, he has given up trying to find his worth in a world that repeatedly antagonizes him. As Hans is tossed about on the winds of change, he finally begins to find his own place at long last...as the leader of an Earth-shattering uprising he never saw coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: A Brief History of the Southern Isles

According to legend, the high gods of the heavens, led by Gud, created an archipelago out of the black rock of Hel’s underworld, a rock stronger than iron but as glimmering as gold. Heat and pressure created the rocks that build the islands in the middle of the sea, and as a result, each of the fifteen islands in this holy chain was dotted with natural hot springs. 

However, due to the infertile nature of Hel’s rock, it was difficult for plants to thrive, and animals to exist. Gud saw this and guided a small group of seafaring nomads to the biggest island, and taught them how to create their own means to plant fruit-bearing seed and manage livestock. These nomads settled the islands permanently and were fruitful in many ways. 

Each of the fifteen islands had unique traits that made each one special, but unable to thrive upon without the alliance of the other fourteen. The largest island was large, strong, and resistant to the elements, therefore, it became the center for the people’s militia and defenses, as well as the home of their chief and his family. Another island was uniquely beautiful and temperate, indicating a natural home for artists and peaceful folk. A third island was easier to cultivate vegetation and livestock from, and it became the source for the growing alliance’s food stores. Yet another island was completely barren and barely habitable...it became the prison colony. 

Each island was within a day’s voyage of another, and each smaller island was a satellite in a circle surrounding the largest island. The settlers of the archipelago initially saw their fellow islanders as allies only, and, eventually, fifteen separate tribes were established. 

As is common in human nature, the fifteen tribes had quarrels with others. Some tribes actively fought the others, some tribes stayed neutral and refused to provoke another, others threatened to overtake their enemy islands and conquer the entire chain. Yet none of the tribes instigated conflict with the central island for fear of its’ superior defenses. 

As a result, this central island developed the quickest, and became a center for trade, military exercises, and nobility. Over time, the group of people on this island grew too large and rich to be classified as a mere ‘tribe.’ They became a population, a population with an internal caste system and economy. They even turned their chief into a King and created a system of laws, known as the Stor Grunnlov, or “Great Constitution.” 

Over time, the Kings of the central island passed on their crown to the next generation, and the next, and so forth, until King Henrik III, ruling nearly three centuries after the first settlers arrived in the archipelago, saw the ongoing conflicts between the smaller islands in his domain, and vowed to put an end to it, and to bring all of the people into a united nation under his power. His dominant, fearsome navy was dispatched to every island in the chain, making quick work ending the feuds. King Henrik III ordered the navies to spend ten years aiding each island in rebuilding their lands in peace, then to bring representatives to the central island to pledge their loyalty to their new ruler. And so, it was done. 

The reign of King Henrik the Great (as he was to become known in history) was legendary, being one of prosperity and peace. His doctrine of union and teamwork between the islands proved effective enough to turn the chain of black rock islands into a strong, stable country King Henrik chose to give this new nation a simple name: the Southern Isles. He did not want to cause stirs among his people with names of significance or noble indication. 

Time went on, and the doctrines and practices of Henrik the Great were carried on and expanded upon by his offspring. The dynasty, sadly, died out when a mysterious plague ravaged the isles, having come to the country via a trade ship. Thousands died, including the King’s only heir. This King, in his last throes of life, left the Kingdom in control of his head butler, Fredrik Westergaard. Fredrik, while adhering to the Stor Grunnlov most of the time, as was his duty, had different ideas about how the country should be run. 

When Fredrik passed on his crown to his own son, Rudolf, he instilled in his son a more conservative approach to leading. As this new dynasty was built, these more strict ideas, about the importance of the classes knowing their places and how punishment and discipline lead to lasting peace, became more and more extreme. Several of the satellite islands were abandoned so that the Kings could keep a closer watch on their people. The Isles became less welcoming to traders from foreign countries,in particular, the Northern Kingdoms of Moravia, Sigynburg, Corona, and Arendelle. The Stor Grunnlov was amended to the point where it barely resembled the original law of peace it had once been. 

By the time King Hagen ascended to the throne, the kingdom had become all but a military state, keeping despotic control over the people. The prison colony of Innløsning had fallen under the practice of Skyldfølelse etter Fødselen, or Guilt by Birth, meaning that every person convicted and sent there would have his family brought as well, and the next two generations of that family would serve life sentences...until the ‘bad blood’ was cleaned out. Though there were whispers of discontent among the people of the satellite isles, these sparks were crushed under the central isle’s foot quickly. But that did not prevent the occasional conspirator to step forward and offer up anti-government propaganda. 

King Hagen married a woman of the noble class named Agathe, and rumor had it that, in spite of their arranged match, the couple held a deep-seated love for each other. Agathe was a beautiful woman, with hair of golden fire and eyes like jade stones. The rumors of a true love between the royal couple seemed to be confirmed when, over the course of twenty years, she gave birth to thirteen strapping boys in quick succession. Although, after a while, rumor also had it that Queen Agathe had grown desperate for a female child with whom to hold a special bond, which explained the many pregnancies in a row. 

Agathe’s small-framed body grew weak and sickly with the toll of all of the royal births. Many of the palace’s maid and nurses did not anticipate Agathe being about to carry another baby after bearing her twelfth child, or, if she did conceive again, it was likely she would not survive the birth. In spite of the pleas of her doctors to refrain from conceiving again, Agathe defied the advice and grew big-bellied once more. She spent many days and nights in seclusion, either on bed rest orders or in her chapel, praying to Gud that her child be a girl. Hagen, meanwhile, was more than immune to the excitement of impending fatherhood by this time, and became isolated from her with the magnanimous task of raising twelve boys and bringing them into manhood. 

Agathe gave birth to a thirteenth son in the dead of winter, as a raging rainstorm pounded outside the chamber window. Upon the declaration of the baby’s sex, Agathe moaned, not in pain, but disappointment. 

“I dread the thought of trying again...but this kingdom is meant to have a royal daughter,” Agathe insisted, much to the chagrin of her attendants.

She gave the baby boy the first name that popped into her mind: Hans. A very common name meaning ‘Gift of Gud.” Hans perfectly resembled his mother, from her hair and eyes, to her strong nose and pallid skin. 

Before Agathe could give suck to her latest child, she grew desperately ill with puerperal fever. Hans was baptized without her present, and, during the feast commemorating his arrival in the world, Agathe died. She had only one of her maids, as well as her two-year-old son, Helmuth, and his governess, at her side. 

The funeral was tiny and insultingly informal for a beloved Queen of the Southern Isles. King Hagen did not mourn in public, but he wept madly in private. Resenting Prince Hans for his mere presence in the word, he made his views towards his youngest child known to his other children, who followed their admired father’s suit in condemning their smallest brother. As a result, Hans was raised far away from the others, at the opposite end of the palace, and treated like less of a Prince and more in the manner of a more-common member of the gentry. Granted, this did give him more freedom to take up activities he preferred, and he took up fencing and swordfighting with all the enthusiasm and skill of an Admiral in the Royal Navy (even his big brothers couldn’t deny the lethality of their sibling). 

Hans did have the closeness and sympathies of his next-older brother, Helmuth, because they shared a wet nurse and a governess. They grew up as the best friend of the other. However, Helmuth was not as much a go-getter as his brother. In fact, watching his mother die, even as a toddler, let to him being an introspective, melancholic presence. At sixteen, he chose to enter the Brotherhood of the Isles, a clerical order that encouraged its’ postulants to spend five years completely isolated from the outside world. Losing the presence of Helmuth, Hans was almost completely alone in the world. While he was able to seek solace in his more mature brother, Lars, who took up running the Royal Archives and Library, Hans grew desperate for attention and love, and was unable to find it. By the time Helmuth returned to the outside world as a full Brother in order to begin his holy work and to renounce his formal title of ‘Prince,’ Hans was a changed boy. While he still worked incessantly with swords and weaponry, he no longer was the optimistic ball of energy he had once been, having adopted a dour, cunning demeanor. A rift grew between the brothers. 

Four years after the death of Queen Agathe, King Hagen chose a second bride, not for the reason of adding to his large brood, but for the companionship. As a result, the machiavellian King chose a strict, self-entitled, but extremely beautiful and compatible woman named Lady Frieda, also from the noble class. Unlike the fair, copper-haired Agathe, Frieda was dark-skinned, with amber eyes and hair as black as coal dust. Most of King Hagen’s sons looked upon her with lust, even though she was very young...younger, in fact, than the first seven of Hagen’s own sons. All of the Princes, including those older than the new Queen, were commanded to call her ‘Mother.’ 

Queen Frieda did not have the fertility of her predecessor, having only conceived twice and miscarried both times. However, in the time just after Hans’ departure for Arendelle in what would come to be known as ‘The Great Shame of the Westergaards,’ Queen Frieda managed to conceive and keep the pregnancy. 

The shame of Prince Hans’ attempt to conquer Arendelle led to a massive disaster for the Southern Isles’ economy. Several trade partners refused to continue their partnerships, leading to a drastic decline in the wealth and power of the Westergaards. Hans could not be stripped of his title, because the law stated that titles were born and inherited through blood. However, he was tried and punished with thirty years of indentured servitude, forced to do the lowest, most shameful jobs the country had to offer him...but it was still preferable of being shipped to Innløsning. 

The chink in the formerly-unyielding stone wall that was the establishment and the royal family led to a resurgence of unrest among the citizens, leading, in turn, to King Hagen seizing a tighter grip on his people. The nobles became richer and more isolated...the poor became vulnerable to capture and unjust slavery. 

Hans, however, knew none of this, as day by day, as the weeks grew into months, he grew more and more isolated, as well as resentful of both himself and his family as he slaved away within the palace walls...


	2. The Great Shame of the Westergaards

“Brother, you seem well today!”

Looking up from the stone floor of his meager little cell, Hans knit his eyebrow and frowned, full of resentment for his big brother now standing in the doorway. Did he jest? Or was the grin stretching across his face genuine? 

“Well? Very well. Oh, excellent well,” Hans muttered bitterly at the cleric. “They tell me I’m on stall duty today, Helmuth. It’s always been my favorite task, mucking horse shit and raking hay across the ground.” 

Brother Helmuth’s smile only fell a little at the sullen reply. Hans looked away from him for a moment and towards the one barred window he had in his quarters. The sun was rising, and the orange rays were beginning to stretch through the bars and across the room. As if Gud himself was endorsing Helmuth’s enlightened state as a member of the Holy Order, the sun rays landed across his body, turning his scarlet monk’s robes into a brighter crimson. The air accompanying the light was warm and gentle, such as Helmuth himself was.

“You’re looking at me as if I should be singing praises to Gud and dancing around a fire,” Hans snarked. “You may have made the stupid mistake of joining a monastery, but you aren’t unintelligent.” 

“Your own mistake outranks mine in stupidity, I’m afraid,” Helmuth replied. “Which is why I live in my cell willingly, and you have no choice.” 

Hans sighed a moment as Helmuth took a seat next to him on his pallet. Helmuth was every bit as handsome as Hans, if not a little shorter and with less muscle. Before he had shaved his head and gone into isolation, Helmuth had been a dashing sixteen year old who would have been yet another charming Prince of the Southern Isles available for marriage to a pretty nobleman’s daughter. Perhaps Helmuth had wanted more than that, and yet less. When he returned to the palace, he was a humble man with little care for looks or women. 

And he used to be my closest confidante...he helped me steal pastries and trick the butlers! 

“As I am so reminded every day,” said Hans quietly. “You’re visiting early. It isn’t Friday, nor is it evening.” 

Helmuth nodded. “Mother is nearing her time to deliver. The child quickens within her, and she wanted me on hand in case she went into a sudden labor and lost her life.” 

“Pffeh,” pitted Hans. 

“What a shameful response to the Queen and your stepmother, especially in her condition,” Helmuth scoffed. “She is bound in holy wedlock to our father the King, and she is Mother. She carries our sibling, and thus is a vessel of Gud’s divine plan.” 

“Helmuth, she is not my mother. The child is not my brother. I don’t care a whit for the delivery, and if she dies in labor, I will not rejoice, but neither will I mourn,” Hans insisted, his voice rising with disgust. 

“You’re certain of another brother?” Helmuth chuckled. Hans nodded. 

“Aren’t you as certain?” he asked in reply. “You can’t deny the maleness of Father’s seed.” 

“Indeed,” the priest agreed, smiling at the laughable odds of thirteen sons and no daughters born to a single woman. “But I cannot also deny our birth mother’s prophecy that a girl child is due to our line.”

Hans rolled his eyes. “How can you remember that? I was still in cull and you were two!”

“Lady Irma never forgot her last words, and she reminded me of them often when I asked her about the woman our Mother was,” Helmuth recalled. 

“She was weak,” Hans suggested.

“You’re a bitter man to say so,” Helmuth replied. “A weak woman would not have died in childbirth. A weak woman would have either expelled the child from her womb or given up fighting to carry it by taking precautions our mother did. She was strong and steadfast. I admire her resolve very much.”

“Well, I think she was weak,” Hans dismissed. 

“Then I am sad for you. If it were so, then we would certainly know where you got it from!” 

That last remark from Helmuth sent Hans into a quickened rage. He grabbed the collar of his brother’s habit and yanked it so that their noses were within an inch of the other. Hans breathed heavily through his flaring nostrils. Helmuth, on the other hand, scarcely did more than blink out of rhythm. 

“What makes you say that? I’m already a prisoner of my own family! Why do you delight in mocking me too? You’re supposed to be a holy man!” 

“Brother, your weakness led you to Arendelle,” Helmuth replied calmly. Hans released his brother’s collar and turned away, pained to be reminded of his poor choices and humiliating defeat in his quest for a crown of his own. “You think it was opportunity or ambition, but it was laziness and weakness! You had the power and resources to buy your own land! To make your own country! To pursue whatever horizon caught your eye! But you chose to prey on a country made vulnerable by a new ruler before the crown had made an imprint in her hair. You chose to seduce a naive little innocent princess in order to get to her when you discovered that the Queen would never consider you to court, then you chose to raise your sword in murderous intent when things began to fall apart. You, Hans, are WEAK!” 

“She was hardly a little innocent,” Hans replied, instinctively rubbing his jaw. “And what was I supposed to do? Let Father dismiss me entirely as a useless spare? Let him shove me into the Brotherhood against my will, or ship me abroad as some ambassador?” 

“Like me, you are not unintelligent. All it would have taken was thought and work...and you would have found your way to happiness of your own accord,” Helmuth said assertively. 

Hans gritted his teeth and got up from the pallet. He paced the floor in silent thought for a moment, coming in and out of the sun rays lighting the cell. 

“The path was yours to seek out, and the clear, paved road doesn’t always lead home,” recited Helmuth. 

Hans scoffed with disdain. “Is that a quote from your Holy Book?”

“If it was, would you ponder it?” Helmuth inquired. 

“No.” 

“Very well then,” Helmuth rose and walked back to the door. “If I don’t come Friday, you will know that Moth--the Queen required me. Pray for her, Hans. As I will pray for you.” 

With those words, he slipped out of the room. The door was shut, but not locked, leaving Hans standing within. It wasn’t as if he was under lock-and-key twenty-four hours a day. He had limited access to a courtyard and library, but the door was secured at night, both by lock and guard. 

Breakfast arrived within the half hour, which gave Hans another half hour of time to eat and think before he was to be summoned for work. 

The stables...ugh! It was arduous, rotten work. It took nine hours of continuous back-breaking labor to complete, and Hans rarely had assistance. The meager breakfast of herring and toast wasn’t enough to sustain his energy for more than the morning. The midday meal, always porridge and coffee, did little more for the afternoon. In the evening, his meal portions were more generous, but only by a little. He was more accustomed to fantastic spiced roasts, fresh fruit, and piles of pureed potatoes. Hans was typically only given kitchen leftovers: the burned heels of bread, the scorched filets of beef, and the lumpy scrapings of potato. He would only have a piece of fruit once a week, on Friday, the Holy Day of Gud. 

Life was a woeful misery, and Hans had to wallow in the filth and degradation for another twenty-nine years. 

Alas, how much better would it have been in the palace proper, at the mercy of his cruel brothers? Whenever they got their ruddy hands on him in childhood, Hans would always have fresh bruises to nurse, new scars to wrap, and roaring headaches to overcome. As the Royal Punch-Bag, Hans endured his formative years being abused, taunted, and convinced of his role as a cipher in the Kingdom. Helmuth was gone, and so Hans had no defense. His swords were always locked away when Hans wasn’t exercising in the gymnasium. Anyway, in raising a blade to a son of the King, even a fellow Prince could be charged with high treason and shipped to the prison isle of Innløsning. 

It was better off when Rudi and Runo refused to acknowledge my existence, Hans had decided years ago. 

While Helmuth was away, Hans found meager comfort in Lars, his third-eldest brother, who was always more tempered than the others. But even Lars’ philosophical musings did little to help Hans when it really mattered. 

But nothing really mattered anymore. Words were empty and without meaning. Purpose eluded Hans, and it was entirely his own fault. 

His punishment wasn’t to work. It was to live a full life with his mind running faster than a thoroughbred horse, knowing full well that he alone was The Great Shame of the House of Westergaard. This was the thought Hans acknowledged as truth every morning as he heard the guard coming down the corridor to fetch him for work.   
\---  
The days were long when Hans had to do stable work. Some days he would be more fortunate and be summoned to paint a wall, scrub floors, or clean cloth. These were the days he could lose himself in his own mind and come back to full consciousness just in time to see the sun set. But mucking and cleaning the horse stables required a mind at the ready at all times, or else he could risk falling into a mound of shit, miss a barrel, or waste hay. Whenever Hans did a task incorrectly, or not up to the standards of the palace staff (which was often), he would either be forced to do an extra hour of work the following day, or only be given half-portions of supper and go to sleep with a painfully empty belly. 

The stables also reminded him of Sitron, his beloved horse. Sitron had been bought as a foal for Hans as a gift from Lars (a fact he only learned well after the fact) soon after Helmuth left to join the Brotherhood. Hans hadn’t understood why some people turned to animals for comfort. Animals were dumb things who couldn’t understand a word of human language. But Sitron...it was as if Sitron could understand him. Hans would spend hours of daylight riding him around the island once the foal was big enough, keeping him young and strong even as time passed. While Sitron was not a young horse any more, he was still full of energy. Hans grew to love him as a companion. 

But Sitron had been left behind in Arendelle, for what reason Hans never did know. Perhaps it was because then humiliated entourage from the Southern Isles retreated with him in the brig of their ship quickly in order to avoid angry Arendellians and the possibility of even more shame. Maybe they’d offered the horse to Queen Elsa or Princess Anna as the beginning of a long line of gifts meant to induce forgiveness for the country that had sent Hans the Betrayer to them. 

It, like everything else, didn’t matter. Sitron was gone, and Hans was reminded of this every time he had to muck the stables. In fact, the past few days he’d had to have that awful reminder. Prince Alban (the fourth-born son), an avid hunter, had led a royal hunting party in honor of the impending birth of Frieda’s child. The hunts took days, and nobles from not only the Southern Isles, but nearby allies as well, were typically invited. Hans only attended one hunting venture in his time...he loathed the activity. All of the extra horses had been housed and groomed here, and Hans himself had to do triple the work by himself. 

Three days of nothing but shoveling horse shit and bailing hay went by, and the fatigue in Hans’ muscles was enough to paralyze a weaker man. The sweat collecting on his brow was hot and prickled. His hair was full of dried dirt, falling in front of his eyes no matter how often he raked his fingers through his scalp in a vain attempt to manage it. Even though his blood would always be his means to his full royal title, Hans was never less of a Prince in his life. 

Just after he picked up his work again after lunch on the third day, a guard came running into the corral. 

“Prince Hans, you are to stop everything now and come back to your room,” the guard commanded, out of breath. Hans dropped his shovel. It was a good four hours until the end of his work day, but he wasn’t about to bring such a minor detail to his guard’s attention.

“What is it?” he asked, genuinely curious. 

“You are to report to your cell until further news is delivered. Your Mother, the Queen, is on the birthing stool.”   
\--  
Hans knew next to nothing of women, no matter how embarrassing such a fact was to admit. At twenty-four, some of his brothers had already been married, or were at least courting. King Hagen had fathered two sons by that age. Hans had never even known the sensuous touch of a woman in his twenty-four years. He knew the biological facts of sex and conception, and many times he had spied on the palace maids undressing in the servants quarters, afterwards seeking privacy in his own rooms to satisfy his subsequent arousals by his own hand. He stole a few curious kisses from some of those same maids. But Hans was still a virgin in every sense of the word. 

Not only did he have no experience with the sexual offerings of women, but he hardly knew the female mind in any capacity. Did women think of the same things men did? Did they enjoy the same interests? And what was it like to become a mother? 

What was his real mother, Agathe, like? How did she greet the arrival of each of her sons,and what did they mean to her? Did they change her life, or did she just pass them off to a nurse as soon as they emerged? What did she give to each of his brothers as her legacy? 

Caleb, the first born, was probably her favorite, even if he was a violent brute with no heart. Erik didn’t look very much like Hagen, so he must have at least partially resembled Agathe. Hans guessed that Lars inherited his gentle patience from her. Alban and Siegfred talked about her sometimes, so they must have shared some sort of relationship with her. Gunther was small in stature...perhaps Agathe was a tiny woman. Flavius, horrendous as he was to Hans, was a favorite among the people, much like he’d heard his mother had been. The twins, Rudi and Runo, had so much of Hagen in them, Hans had no idea what Agathe could have instilled in them. Peter was inquisitive and asked many questions. Magnus was graceful when he walked. Whenever Hans saw Magnus walk down a corridor, it reminded him of a dance. And Helmuth, who had barely known Agathe, spoke of her as if she’d been with him her entire life. 

None of these traits were evidence in King Hagen, so where else could they have come from? Using such logic, Hans spent countless hours developing the woman he believed his mother had been in his head, and that was where she stayed. He resented her for dying at his birth almost as much as his brothers did him for causing the illness that took her away. 

“Why did you have me?” he would often ask Agathe in his head. “I never wanted to be born.” 

Agathe never answered him. She was an apparition, a figment tucked into the darkest corner of his imagination. Hans had no concept of ‘mother’ beyond the strict definition fo the word, and the biological implications of such. 

Yet she was with him now, even though the royal birth had nothing to do with her. Hans sat in his cell as the night grew long and dark. What would she think of him and where he’d ended up? Did he disgrace her? Could she even be disgraced if she was dead and buried? 

Frieda, Hans maintained, was not his ‘mother.’ She insisted that each of her stepsons refer to her in that way, just as all of the Southern Isles referred to her as “Queen.” It was insulting to even spit the word out in reference to her. She was cold and ambitious, just as her husband. It also repulsed Hans how she was younger than half of her stepchildren. It was disgusting how the vain, perky little peacock strutted around, pretending to be something she was not. She was only Queen by marriage. She did not have the love of the people she oversaw. Frieda did not have the political prowess or grasp of the economic status of the nation that a real ruler ought to have had. 

And she was the one being celebrated tonight as giving birth to the next royal baby. Not that this one would have any more significance in the line of succession that Hans had. Perhaps she was arranging for the fanfare on her own? Falsehoods. Forgery. How degrading. 

Sometime after two o’clock in the morning, Hans, who had been dozing off by the window, was startled awake. Helmuth was gently shaking his shoulder. 

“Oof,” Hans remarked. “What news? Is the bat delivered of her offspring?”

Helmuth ignored his bitter words. “You won’t believe it, my brother! But after forty-three years and thirteen boys, a princess is born to us!”

This news was what brought Hans eagerly to his feet in spite of his internal anger. “What?”

Helmuth was grinning like a child at a party. “We have a sister! And she is perfect!” 

A small smile curled at the corner of Hans’ lip.


	3. Princess Rosagunde

Ten days after the birth of the Princess, Hans was excused from labor. He was taken to the servants’ bathhouse and allowed to wash for thirty whole minutes in the hot, soap-filled water. For the past year, Hans had only been allotted a ten-minute bath in lukewarm water with a plain, fragrance-free soap every other day after work (every day whenever he had stable duty). The strong, luxurious smell of cleanliness was more than welcome. He was even given a separate tonic for his hair, whereas before, whatever he used on his body was what he used on his head. 

After his bath, Hans was given one of his old formal suits from his princely days to wear. He couldn’t help but notice how it had grown loose on him from the past year of undernourishment. He did all he could to adjust the pants and shirt, but even the epaulets seemed to sag on his narrow shoulders. 

After his red hair was swept back (it was long enough now to fit into a small ponytail at the nape of his neck), Hans was escorted by two guards and Helmuth to the palace proper, where the entire gentry had arrived for the christening celebration of the newborn royal daughter. He was anxious to see how much she resembled her vain parrot of a mother. He couldn’t imagine her showing any genetic signs of being a Westergaard. He was also on edge about coming face to face with the ten brothers he’d last seen when King Hagen had handed down his ruling and sentence. Only Lars and Helmuth had bothered to visit him since. 

Fortunately, the ceremony was beginning just as Hans arrived. The procession began in the grand chapel, with the King, Queen and Princess progressing first, followed by each Prince and his family (if they had one). Crown Prince Caleb, the heir apparent, went first. 

Caleb was always one of the cruelest of Hans’ abusive brothers. Even though he was nearly twenty years older than his littlest sibling, Ca;eb always seemed to derive a perverse joy from taunting and hurting Hans. He’d aided Runi and Runo in an extended period of three years where they didn’t even acknowledge him as alive. Caleb was not attractive. In fact, he was a hulking, fat ape. Yet, he’d found a woman willing to be his wife, a tall, gangly blonde daughter of Hagen’s closest advisor, Katarina Arvid. In time, she bore him three children, the High Princesses Thora and Frey, and the High Prince Ivan. 

All but Rudi, Runo, Helmuth, and Hans had a wife to walk beside them during the procession. Being the youngest, Hans was the last in the line. Before Helmuth turned to march, he patted Hans’ shoulder in silent reassurance.

Walking up the aisle of the chapel, Hans felt cold, as if every eye in the room was staring him down with ill intent. Indeed, he definitely heard whispers, perhaps even a few hisses. In spite of the cool reception from the gentry, Hans raised his chin in pride. This was Prince Hans of the Southern Isles, tall and handsome, regardless of his failed attempt to usurp Arendelle and subsequent fall from grace. He was a Westergaard. 

The wives and children of the Westergaard Princes sat in the first few pews of the chapel, while the men formed a line to the left of the baptismal basin in order of age. Hans was so far away that he could barely see the ritual the bishop performed on the infant. The immense size of the chapel also made it hard for him to hear the ritual chants being said for her as holy water was dabbed onto her forehead.

Finally, the bishop raised the princess into the air above the basin. “By the authority vested in me by the grace of Gud, I baptise you and grant you the name Rosagunde Maria Westergaard, Princess of the Southern Isles.” 

The babe squirmed even as she was handed off to her mother. Queen Frieda looked positively victorious. A baby officially cemented her place as the Queen of the Southern Isles in the eyes of the law. And not only had she succeeded in bear a child for her King, but it was the long-awaited female child that Agathe, his mother, had died trying to bring forth. Hans felt ill looking at her. 

After the ceremony, the family held a large banquet and party in honor of Princess Rosagunde that only the highest nobles of the country were permitted to attend. Hans was relieved of his escort, though his status as a criminal meant each door to the grand ballroom was guarded. Hans barely noticed. While most of the guests and family eagerly waited for the King, Queen, and Princess to enter the room, he found himself aimlessly wandering about the ballroom, his hands clasped behind his back as he strutted, allowing nostalgia to flood his brain. 

As a child, Hans had often escaped his brother’s wrathful pursuits by coming here. The Grand Ballroom was strictly off limits to the royal sons. Even gathering in the ballroom were forbidden to the children until they were old enough to make their societal debuts at sixteen years of age. That never stopped Hans from darting inside the large room and crawling behind a potted plant, or hiding behind a window drape, or even just huddling up against the wall until the danger had passed. At his debut, Hans was only able to dance with two women before his brothers ganged up to mock him. The verbal insults hurled at him even on his sixteenth birthday were harsh enough to drive Hans out of the party in humiliation. No one consoled him. Afterwards, the room went from being a sanctuary to being just another room in the palace where he could be jumped by Caleb or Flavius at any time. 

Now, Hans was conflicted over how the ballroom made him feel now. Was it ever this large? Weren’t rooms supposed to feel smaller as one grew older? 

Before Hans could mull for too long, the King and Queen were announced. King Hagen, dressed in gold livery, proud and vain, had the triumphant Queen Frieda on his arm. She wore a gown to match his suit, the skirt billowing out almost comically wide. Hans couldn’t help but bite his lower lip to stifle a giggle. In Arendelle, the women wore slimmer gowns, modest and restrained, and it made them look mature and elegant. Queen Elsa herself had been coronated in a very tight, blue velvet dress, and it made her look nearly ten years older than her true age. Frieda’s obnoxiously ornate ensemble made her look like a teenager playing dress-up. 

Behind the Royal Couple walked a nursemaid carrying a white, lacy bundle. Hans scoffed. Frieda was so concerned about her own appearances that she couldn’t be bothered to hold her own child on that child’s baptism day!   
\--

The evening wore on, and Hans finally gathered up the courage he needed to ask to hold his half-sister. With some mild encouragement from Lars (Helmuth’s order forbade him from attending decadent events like feasts and dances, and thus he had retired to his cell for the night), Hans managed to approach the King and Queen with enough authority to stave off his big brothers. 

“Your Majesties,” Hans requested with cool formality. “I would like permission to meet my sister.” 

King Hagen looked to his wife, who scrunched her nose in displeasure. Hans thought that she resembled a pug. 

“You may hold her,” Hagen consented, surprising both Hans and Frieda. “You are no longer the runt of the family, after all. Maybe holding her will give you some sense of responsibility and decency.” 

Hans ignored the insult and reached out for the child, who was still writhing uncomfortably as she had during her baptism. However, the second she was laid in Hans’s arms, she stilled, and her moans of discomfort softened into a mild, contented coo. 

Frieda’s face darkened. Hagen looked startled. Hans didn’t notice either of them. It was as if the world around him began to melt away, leaving only an empty, black space for him and little Rosagunde. The icy wall around his heart began to thaw. 

Rosagunde was a Westergaard after all. She did not have the red hair most of her brothers possessed...but her eyes were jade in spite of her parents being brown-eyed. Her pale skin was puffy, her lips full and fat. She was beautiful. And she apparently knew Hans already, and, in spite of his many faults and sins, she liked him. 

Hans lifted a single finger and ran it gently across her cheek. Rosagunde turned toward the tip of it and wrapped her mouth around it, attempting to suck milk from it. Even though she found none, she was obviously content in nursing Hans’ finger, and Hans was fine with her doing so. 

“Rosagunde…” Hans muttered softly. “Rosa...Rosie…” 

Falling in love couldn’t possibly have been as wonderful as Hans felt in that moment. Here was a tiny baby Princess choosing her favorite big brother. It gave Hans a sense of hope, a sense of love, and a sense of responsibility. In that moment, everything stopped where it was, and time stood still. She might as well have been Hans’ own daughter. Not that he had ever had the urge to procreate in the slightest...but if there was ever a time he began to understand the strong bond an adult could have with a baby, it was now. 

If there was a way I could hold onto you like this forever, I would pay any price at this moment. What can you possibly see in me? I’m a hardened old man who has done terrible things, you know. But, I will do everything in my power to protect you, sister. I will give you everything you desire and deserve. I will fight for you, and if any of these scoundrel we call brothers lay a hand on you in the way they did me, I promise that I will take you away. I love you, Rosie. 

“Okay, my turn, Worm!” chimed Caleb, practically shoving Hans’ shoulder with the baby still in his arm. He nearly had to pry Rosagunde out of his arms in order to hold her himself. As if on cue, Rosagunde began wailing in a high, shrill voice. The activity in the room was brought to a screeching halt. 

Hans furrowed his brow and grew red in the face. He balled his fists and clenched his teeth. “Hand her off to Father,” he commanded. Caleb looked up from the distressed baby at Hans and instantly handed her off to King Hagen. Rosagunde did not settle very much, but she still seemed to find more security in her father’s arms than Caleb’s. 

Meanwhile, Caleb walked menacingly close to Hans. “Has hauling shit gotten to your brain, Worm? Did you just command me?”

“Yes,” Hans growled. “She is our sister, not a sack of meat for you to snatch away with your fat hands.” 

“Caleb! Hans! Stand down!” King Hagen commanded. But neither brother heard their father’s demand. 

“You dare insult your better?” Caleb barked. 

“Gladly, and I’ll do it again, you greasy, snivelling lug,” Hans replied. 

The other inhabitants of the room were gravitating towards the conflict with perverse interest. The air grew hot and thick. But Hans did not let up. In fact, he felt his strength from long ago returning and building him up to challenge his brother. 

“HANS!” barked King Hagen, going to hand off his daughter in case he needed to intervene physically. 

“You have a death wish,” Caleb warned. “I won’t hesitate to snap you like a hen’s neck in front of the entire court.” 

“Then do it, you leaking bucket of cow piss!” Hans dared. The last time he had let his actions outrun his mind in this way was just over a year ago...in Arendelle. 

Before Hans could charge at the Crown Prince with angry fists flying, he felt a large, rough hand on his shoulder, followed by another, tugging firmly at him to guide him away from the spectacle. Hans turned to face, surprisingly, Prince Gunther, who was as red as he himself from the tension in the situation. 

“Take him onto the balcony, Gunther!” The King commanded, he himself trying to hold back his heir. 

“Yes, Father!” Gunther obeyed. Hans struggled against his brother’s secure hands. However, his strength quickly betrayed him, and Hans found himself stepping in with Gunther as he was led outside onto the balcony overlooking the south gardens. When Gunther released him and shut the door, Hans nearly spiraled to the railing, only regaining his balance just before reaching it. 

“Are you mad?!” Gunther barked. “Causing a stir now, of all times? Don’t you think you’re in enough trouble already?!”

“Did you not see what Caleb did?!” Hans asked in heightened voice. “How he handled our sister?!”

“Oh, come now, Hans!” Gunther groaned, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “It’s Caleb! He treats everyone like that, even now!” 

“He could have hurt her!” Hans defended himself. 

Gunther didn’t respond right away. When he finally did, his voice was much softer. “She’s a doll, is she not?”

Hans looked down. “I couldn’t describe it. But she’s incredible.” 

“Maybe it’s because she’s a girl, but there is something almost hypnotising about her,” Gunther pondered. “I wouldn’t know. I only have a son.” 

“I have nothing. I have never even held a woman in my arms for more than a moment. The closest I ever came to that was--” Hans cut himself off. This was the last place and time he wanted to bring up his sins against Arendelle. 

Gunther nodded, but didn’t respect Hans’ unsung wish for discretion. “I know we don’t speak, and I know I threw you around when we were young, but may I ask you something?”

Hans looked at Gunther. The sixth Westergaard Prince, Gunther was often lost in the sea of older boys turning into men, and little boys being coddled and treasured. As a result, he gravitated towards the older half of the boys, and acted as a toadie on their behalf, which often meant he would be the one beating the littler ones in exchange for respite for himself. His face was rounder than Hans’ long, lean jaw. His eyes were smaller and closer together, and he was only one of three Princes, the others being Hans and Helmuth, to be unable to grow a beard. Gunther had what some of the maids called ‘a baby-face.’ Hans took this to mean a bad thing, but Gunther managed to marry very young in spite of it, even younger than Caleb had. His own wife, Hilda, was a very fat woman, and the lowest born of the Westergaard Wives, but she also had the broadest smile and most cheerful demeanor. Of all of his sisters-in-law, Hans was most appreciative of Hilda and her ability to see the sunlight in anyone. 

“What is it?” Hans mumbled. 

Gunther advanced on Hans until they were toe-to-toe. 

“Why did you do it?”

“Do what?” Hans already knew what he was referring to. 

Gunther repeated himself. “Why did you do it? Try to conquer Arendelle and kill their Queen?” 

Hans looked up at the night sky. The lights glowing from the palace windows prevented the stars from being visible, and the sky itself had a deep indigo hue instead of obsidian black.

“It’s been a year now,” Hans mused. “And I still don’t even know why.” 

“Oh, surely you must,” Gunther pried. “It was no small task to undertake...and you nearly succeeded.” 

“No,” Hans disagreed. “I was never close to winning their crown. I was up against something stronger the whole time.” 

“The Queen’s ice power?” Gunther asked hesitantly. Hand shook his head again. 

“No, stronger than that. It...it was--” 

Suddenly, a loud cry from within the ballroom interrupted Hans’ thought. It wasn’t a baby cry...it was an adult man’s shouting. The words were muffled and incoherent until Gunther rushed to open the door. 

“ABOLISH THE MONARCHY!” the hollers pleaded. Hans followed the noise with his eyes until the fell upon the source: a butler being restrained by two guards. “LET YOUR PEOPLE LIVE EQUALLY! DOWN WITH THE KING!”

“Take him away! Now!” commanded the King. After another moment of effort on the part of the guards, the protester was subdued and removed. As if nothing had happened, the party continued. Caleb, who had been settled and not asked to leave, was standing loyally at his father’s side. He even acknowledged Hans with a curt nod. Frieda once again held Rosagunde, who was still disturbed and writhing around impatiently. 

“What was that?” Hans asked. 

King Hagen glanced at Caleb, as if they were holding some sort of secret decision against Hans. 

“Hans, I think it’s time you returned to your cell for the night. However, I will send an attendant to bring you to my study in the morning. There is something we must discuss.” 

“Father, if this is about the fight--”

“--he said go,” Caleb demanded. The King did nothing to reprimand him for the order, which was out of line even for his elevated rank. No one commanded another in the presence of the King, unless the King himself commanded the command. 

Two guards flanked Hans. There was no use for protests now. Hans did look over to Gunther, but in reply, Gunther shrugged in confusion and turned away without another word, heading for the buffet table. 

As he was escorted back to his prison, Hans glanced back once more at Frieda and the baby as he went out. Rosagunde was still upset. Perhaps she needed feeding or changing, or maybe she was still frightened that Hans was being forced away while Caleb, the one who’d mishandled her and caused the fight that disturbed the party in the first place, was allowed to linger to hold her in rough fashion again.


	4. Stor Grunnlov

The following morning, the winds were high and hot, bringing a nasty humidity with it that slowed Hans’ natural stride as he was led to his father’s study well before most of the palace was even awake. He had been given no time to eat, nor to dress in anything fitting an audience with the King. His loose linen shirt was untied and exposed the top of his chest. One of his pant legs was rolled up almost to the knee. His soiled boots had holes in the toes, and only his socks were keeping the open air from stinging the cuts on his feet. 

The palace was, of course, quiet. Hans could vaguely smell the scents of breakfast being prepared for the household. Was that apple strudel? Apple strudel had always been Hans’ favorite pastry. His nurses would always warn against him having too many, insisting his beautiful teeth would rot at the root and fall out due to all the sugar.

It was funny how long the corridor had seemed, but how Hans’ dread for what he was about to face had made the time pass so quickly as he walked, even as the hall seemed to stretch and increase in distance. He’d never really realized how, as a child, he’d taken the slippery marble floors, plush red carpets, and tall, white buttresses for granted. How beautiful and grand they were! Hans felt small in that hallway, but whether that was good or bad remained to be felt. 

The study door was open (how rare), and a guard only had to tap lightly on the wooden frame to indicate their arrival. King Hagen was sitting at a long, cherry wood desk, littered with parchments, quills, and other office supplies. The walls were fitted with bookshelves that ran from floor to ceiling, with the exception of the wall holding the window overlooking a private balcony. On the left of the window were two paintings. The first was of King Hagen himself on the day of his coronation. The other was of the King and Queen Frieda on their wedding day. Frieda was in white, making her dark skin pop and look almost chunky. 

“Enter, and guards, please close the door and wait outside,” the King commanded. So it was done. 

The air in the room was humid and warm. There was no air flow, making the tension in the study rise and become quickly unbearable. Hans stood obediently at attention, making sure not to look his father in the eye as he got to his feet and began circling him in the center of the room. 

“Boy, have you forgotten your place?” the King asked, his voice raspy, as if he’d smoked a cigar or two just before Hans arrived. 

“What place is that, Father?” asked Hans. My place? Ha! I’ve been searching for a place in this world for my entire life, and more than ever, it seems that I have no place. 

“Your rank as a thirteenth son, and a convicted criminal at that,” King Hagen answered. “You are the cause of my late wife’s death. You barely had any worth in marriageability before you went and destroyed even those minute chances in Arendelle. I was planning on sending you to the Brotherhood or to oversee one of the outer islands because of your insignificance here. You, boy, are only a Prince by blood and formal title. Had it said otherwise in the Stor Grunnlov, I would have long ago stripped you of your title and arranged for your disposal.” 

Thank you, Father, for your undying love.  
“Last night, what possessed you to think to challenge your older and better brother, and the heir to the House of Westergaard?” King Hagen inquired briskly, still pacing the room around Hans. 

“He nearly hurt the newborn Princess,” hans replied instantly. “You were standing ten feet away, and--”

“--be careful of your next words,” the King warned. “You have no right to speak your mind here.” 

“Pardon my boldness,” Hans mumbled. For as dominant and challenging a personality as Hans had on his own, he knew that it was always in his best interest to be a lowly, snivelling sycophant while addressing his father. Compromising his true self in that regard was something Hans was used to. It was how he learned to uncover what a person expected him to be, and to act the part in order to fully satisfy the target.

“You caused a stir that not only upset the celebration, but it upset the order I hold in my domain. Caleb ranks high above you. He has a right to do what he will with you, as well as with the Princess. Your show last night only served to demonstrate to me that you will never understand your place,” exclaimed the King. “You are a lowly snake, who thinks he can slither in and out of people's’ notice. But after your shameful acts abroad, you played the only card you had, and now everyone in the Southern Isles knows who you truly are.”

“And who am I, Father?” Hans asked with tense bitterness. 

“You are worthless. A worthless boy who hides behind a mask of superiority and pride. Well, the only one left who seems to believe your lies is yourself.”

Did he believe his own lies now? No, and Hans knew it. Hans knew very well who he was and who he wasn’t. And how on Earth could King Hagen know more than Hans’ hair color? He didn’t bother to raise his last son. Until he was five years old, Hans had believed that his fencing tutor was his father. He’d taught himself how to be a man. King Hagen knew nothing of the man he was, had been, or could be. 

“It seems,” King Hagen added. “That you no longer have a place here at all.” 

“Will you have me executed privately, or in view of the people, to be an example?” Hans asked, his voice unwavering. He’d seen his share of both in his lifetime. In private, condemned prisoners were beheaded by a skilled axeman. In public, criminals died by the rope, their bodies hanging for hours afterwards, a sign designating their capital crime hung around their broken necks.

“Imbecile,” King Hagen muttered, finally stopping directly in front of Hans. “Look at me, boy.” 

Hans obeyed, looking into his Father’s bloodshot eyes. He’d been awake for hours...or perhaps he had not gone to bed at all. 

“As I said before, the Stor Grunnlov states that royal blood cannot be shed by execution, as it taints the sacredness of such blood,” the King explained. “I am compelled to obey that law. However, that does not prevent me from throwing you away like the refuse you have become.” 

“Exile, then?” Hans asked casually. However, the mere word made his heart pound against his ribcage. 

“Indeed,” the King concurred. 

“Where to?” Hans asked. Perhaps he would be asked to leave the Southern Isles altogether. He could find a new land to settle, perhaps rise through the ranks and charm the people of the territory to treat him with dignity. “Abroad?”

“Hans, as if anyone outside our borders hasn’t heard of your Great Shame. No one would take you in.”

Hans had to admit to himself that King Hagen had a valid point in that respect. 

“No, boy. You will be sent to Innløsning. And because of your birth title, I am forced to accept that you have the right to return to the Central Isle once every three months for seven days. You will be housed in the palace when these birthright trips occur. I will use those times to question you and gauge your progress. If, in ten years’ time, I see you learning your place, you will be given the chance to come home, perhaps to join the Brotherhood, or take up a task of a public servant,” the King ruled. 

Innløsning? The prison colony? Hans felt a lump rise in his throat. Innløsning was the island furthest from the Central Isle. It was said to be a barren wasteland, hot and dry, dusty and dismal. Prisoners exiled there rarely, if ever, returned to their homes. The name itself was a morbid farce: Innløsning. Redemption. No one who went to Innløsning was ever redeemed. 

“Father, that decision is drastic,” Hans said after a moment, thinking over his next move. He needed to defend himself masterfully if he had a chance at all of avoiding exile. “You say you’re concerned about your image in the eyes of the people who look to you for structure...wouldn’t this be widening the chink in the stone wall? The Great and Powerful King Hagen had to throw his youngest son away because he couldn’t handle the boy’s antics.” 

The King raised an eyebrow. “That’s your idea. I do not think the people will think that way. They will see it as a sacrifice I had to make to keep the system intact.” 

Hans let his shoulders drop. He had no other ideas but to plead...and even he would refuse to fall to his knees in front of this man, who was only his father in the biological sense.

“And this is strictly for the record, as I am a man who owns up to every decision I make, unlike yourself,” the King added as an afterthought. “I did not make this decision.”

“What?” 

“I wanted to extend your sentence another ten years, keeping you indebted to me for forty years instead of thirty. Caleb was the one who suggested exile,” King Hagen admitted. 

Hans gritted his teeth and grunted savagely at the fact. That rat bastard!

“He fears me, Father!” Hans said, raising his voice in anger. “I gave him the first genuine challenge of his life! If I’d chosen to throw down the gauntlet, he knows he would lose! I am the best swordsman in the family! He isn’t King! Can’t you--”

King Hagen threw a hand across his face, slapping his cheek with such force that Hans’ whole head was turned completely sideways. 

“You’re lucky that was my palm and not my fist, you wretched boy,” he said threateningly. “And that is enough from you. You’re pushing my mercy to its’ limits. Your ship leaves in three hours. You will be in Innløsning by sunset the day after tomorrow. In three months, you will be summoned back for your birthright visit, during which time, so help me Gud, if you enter my presence, I won’t hesitate to throw you across the room.”

The threat was genuine and serious. Even in his advanced age of sixty-three, King Hagen was strong and fit. Hans had lost enough weight to be the lightest he’d been since he was a teenager. There was no doubt Hagen would make good on his threat. 

“Guards!” King Hagen called. The two escorts opened the door and awaited command. “Take Prince Hans to his cell and give him a brief bath. Put clean linen on him, and have him at the harbor by midday. He is sailing out on the Asgaard.”

“Yes my Lord,” one of the guard confirmed. 

Instead of flanking him, Hans noticed that the guards grabbed his arms and held them tight as they took him back out of the study.   
\---  
Exile. Exile! Exile to Innløsning! 

Visions of skeletal, stinking peasants in dirty linen suits and with skin mutilated beyond all recognition ran in front of his mind. He imagined hot, arid air and dusty, rocky grounds over which he would be forced to walk with bare feet. He imagined being huddled in between diseased old men at night, unable to turn over, let alone feel comfortable. He saw his handsome, clean, fresh skin destroyed by oozing pustules that stank when they burst. Hans knew he couldn’t possibly last very long in such an unwelcoming environment. Suddenly, the shit-filled horse stables looked like a luxurious apartment. 

“Damnation,” Hans swore under his breath as he paced his cell, waiting for the guards to fetch him at any moment to be taken to the harbor. “Damn, damn, damn it…” 

“You do many rash things, but cursing doesn’t become a Prince no matter who they are,” said a familiar voice from behind Hans. He turned to see Helmuth standing in the doorway in his Brotherhood habit. 

Hans was actually happy to see his brother. He nearly ran to embrace him in affection and fear, but stopped himself. Even now, Hans was compelled to be stone-faced. He needed to have courage now more than ever. Helmuth smiled warmly, seeing the truth in Hans’ eyes. 

“He is acting on Caleb’s orders!” Hans exclaimed in anger. “This is wrong!”

Helmuth shook his head. “While Gud is my absolute authority, my duty to my Father King is second in line. His wish is law, and if he concurred with our brother, then it is so.”

“Damn!” Hans’ breath quickened. “I will die on Innløsning, you have to know that!”

Helmuth shook his head. “You will be protected.”

“Those words may comfort little girls, but you know full well that I hold no regard for Gud, nor do I believe in Gud’s existence. I am condemned,” Hans said sharply. Helmuth didn’t even blink at the blasphemous declaration. 

“My dear brother, perhaps this is what is meant to be,” he suggested. Hans rolled his eyes in disapproval. 

“I hate you when you try this bit on me,” Hans said. “Did you not just hear me? I don’t believe--”

“--that isn’t my intention at all, Hans,” Helmuth interrupted. “I am simply suggesting that perhaps...perhaps your path begins here. Your new path. The path to your destiny.” 

“Yes, and my destiny is disgrace and death,” Hans concluded. “It’s what I deserve.”

“You don’t earn your destiny, brother. If that were so, then there would be no tyrants in the world. No thieves. No murderers,” said the priest. 

“Stop speaking like a talentless psychic trying to dazzle me with pretty words,” Hans dismissed. 

“Hans, my brother, for once, please listen to me,” Helmuth pleaded. Hans crossed his arms intently. 

“What do you have left to say to me? You abandoned me when we were boys to go chase enlightenment, leaving me to the mercy of Caleb and his goons. Do you have any third-rate holy quotes to comfort me as I sail off to waste away in a prison colony?”

“  
“Hans, I don’t think you should give up yet. Forging your path is not easy. You’ve failed once, and now you’re paying for it. That is all true,and it’s not easy to deal with, but that is how you atone for your sins. However, you should never stop trying to find your place in our world. Even if you don’t end up on a literal throne, you know, at the very least, that you will be king of your own fate.”

Helmuth paused to see if Hans would respond. 

“Don’t mock me again, Helmuth,” Hans warned. “Of all of them, I thought you would be a little more sympathetic to my plight.” 

“Them?” Helmuth asked. 

“You know damn well who ‘them’ is,” Hans hissed. 

Helmuth finally began to waver in his perpetually optimistic attitude. “You create ‘them.’”

“They were never ‘us!’ Helmuth, you left the palace when you were sixteen! I was left alone there to endure the throes of puberty in their abuse! I lived in this...this kingdom of isolation, and now they are compelled to tell me that I never fit in and that I have no worth as a human being!” he confessed with frustration. 

“Show them that they are wrong, then,” Helmuth suggested simply. 

Hans looked at his older brother, and it suddenly dawned on him that he could have defended himself in any way possible and Helmuth would not have been able to provide words of genuine comfort to him. 

“Helmuth, leave me alone. They will be coming for me soon.” Hans swallowed hard, perhaps holding back from an outburst that would only serve to upset them both further. 

“Hans--”

“--GO!” he barked, turning his back to the doorway. Helmuth stood in silence a moment, before nodding and turning to leave. 

“I will never stop praying for you, my brother,” he said softly, turning away from Hans, leaving him alone with his fears.   
\---  
King Hagen must have arranged for the harbor to be clear for Hans’ departure. Usually, it was alive as early as dawn, with traders, merchants, and even the occasional sex worker walking away discreetly from the inns where sailors spent the night, typically made the harbor a busy place. Noon was usually the busiest time of the entire day. But today, there was no one but the small crew of the Asgaard, the smallest ship in the Southern Isles Naval Fleet, in sight. 

Hans had his hands bound in front of him as he was paraded to the ship and brought aboard. At least Hans was given a little dignity by being granted privacy as he was being taken into custody and led out to sea. Or maybe it wasn’t a gift. Maybe it was King Hagen saving face again. 

He was led immediately to the brig, which was little more than a large closet with bars over the entrance. A wooden bench was built into the far wall, and a bucket sat in the corner. Hans shuddered to think of the purpose of that bucket. 

“We have orders to give you two meals a day,” one sailor informed Hans. “One at dawn, one at dusk. You won’t leave this cell until we arrive.”

Hans could feel the boat sway as it began to set sail. He craned his neck and attempted to watch the isle as it fell away behind the ship, but he couldn’t see very much beyond the black obsidian balconies of the palace’s west wall. He thought he saw a speck of crimson among the dark wall, but it disappeared quicker than the rest of Central Isle as Hans was shipped off to Innløsning and, perhaps, his fate.


	5. The Isle of Innløsning

Two days sloshed by like mud as Hans sat in the brig of the Asgaard, pondering his situation with pessimism and fatalism. Helmuth was on to something when he said fate was predetermined, Hans decided. From the very beginning of his life, Hans was pre-destined to suffer and fail at the hands of others, as well as himself. He should have seen the signs falling into place and never went to Arendelle at all. Perhaps, then, he would at least still be living in the palace. Maybe his father would have betrothed him to a foreign princess or noble, granting him the freedom he never had. Even if it was a marriage of convenience, Hans knew some of his brothers sought sexual gratification outside of the vows they made, and he was never concerned about finding true love anyhow. Perhaps he would have been a father by now...but that was also something Hans didn’t bother to fantasize about. 

Or, if not, would joining the Brotherhood with Helmuth have been so bad? Helmuth clearly agreed with the lifestyle, so there had to be something to it. And Helmuth, who had also suffered moderately from the bullying of his older brothers (not nearly to the extent that Hans had, however), was no longer the subject of any taunting whatsoever. Priests of the Brotherhood were respected, because they supposedly held the secret to divine communication. Hans would have gained the immunity from the pain that came with joining the Order. 

Then again, hindsight was sharp and clear, and Hans knew dwelling on what might have been would only serve to pour acid into his wounds. He would have no bride, no respect, and no redemption. And it was his own damn fault for not seeing it before: he was condemned to a melancholic life from the day of his birth. Perhaps as punishment for killing his mother by introducing the infection into her body that destroyed her. 

This made Hans not sad, but even angrier than before he’d set the events in motion that led him to his present place: in the hull of a ship bound for Innløsning. He cursed the sky and Gud for forcing him into everything. How could a helpless infant know what he was doing in being conceived to a body already ravaged by twelve other births? He cursed his mother for dying. He cursed his family for not having the heart or concern to take pity on him. He cursed himself for not being more ambitious in his conquest of Arendelle...he’d not seen the magic of Queen Elsa coming, and it was that magic that caused his plan to fall apart. 

Perhaps that was another reason why he resented Helmuth for taking up the robe. Helmuth was serving the same Gud that cursed Hans to all of this torment. Watching his former ally devoted himself enthusiastically to the being that was Hans’ enemy was painful, especially when he realized how happy it made the man. It was as if Gud had singled out Hans alone to suffer. All of his brothers were married or had found their lot in life, and were prosperous. Wherefore was he to this keen mockery born? 

Just before sunset on the third afternoon of the journey, the Asgaard approached the bay of Innløsning. Hans could see the growing shoreline of the miserable place. Unlike many of the other islands, either blackened from the hot rock that created the islands, or lush green from centuries of careful planting and cultivation in otherwise barren soil, this shore was the color of an overripe black olive after being rolled in the dust. He could almost see the waves of heat rising off the island and into the air, like they would off of a fire burning in the middle of a midsummer’s day. Hans trembled at the sight. 

The bay was only big enough for one dock and three small ships to fit. As the Asgaard came to a stand still on the side of the dock, three burly men, immaculate and dressed in identical black military uniforms, came marching up to the gangway being lowered. They spoke briefly to one another before addressing the captain of the ship. The largest one, blonde and husky, was the one to speak. 

“Bring him,” was all he said. 

“Aye, sir,” replied the captain. “Before we do, we need to inform you about this one.”

Hans couldn’t hear what the captain was saying to the military men, but he assumed it was about his identity and reason for being there. The men all looked up at Hans with interest as he was being bound again at the wrists with coarse rope. The big blonde one chuckled. 

“Very well, then, we will see to all of it,” he concluded, pulling a tiny bag of coins out of his pocket and handing them off to the captain. Hans was yanked down the gangplank, where the end of his rope was handed off to the blonde guard. 

“I am Commander Leif, but you will address me as ‘Sir,’ do you hear?” he said roughly, his face less than five inches from Hans’. He could smell the man’s rancid breath...like onions and beer. 

“Sir,” Hans mumbled quietly, looking him in the eye. 

Commander Leif looked knowingly at one of his comrades before turning back to smack his new prisoner across the face in one move. The sting re-ignited the pain that King Hagen had inflicted on the same side three days ago. 

“Never look me in the eye, boy,” the man warned. “You aren’t worth eye contact from me.” 

Hans didn’t respond this time. Instead, he looked down. Commander Leif seemed to be pleased with this. 

“Lambi, Gardar,” he addressed his men. “Take him, process him, and put him in C-barracks. He will start with the mudders in the morning.”

“Yes, Commander,” both men replied in unison. 

Hans was taken to a poorly-constructed wooden cart waiting just off the dock. A tiny, pathetic-looking ass was hitched to it. One of the guards tied his rope to the side of the cart and commanded that Hans sit facing backwards. After they mounted the seat in the front and whipped the donkey twice, the cart began to shake and move over the rocky path leading up onto the island proper. 

Innløsning was a large, steep hill of dust and rock. From what Hans could observe from the floor of the cart, it was just as dirty as he’d imagined...but it wasn’t quite as dry or desert-like. Instead, oddly enough, most of the filth came from mud and grime. Where does the dirt come from? These islands are ash and rock…

At the peak of the mound at the center of the island was a large field with a large, cement building encircled by eight smaller wooden ones. Some of these smaller huts had clotheslines running in between them, some had small circles of stone arranged in curious patterns. One even had a crudely-constructed slide made from branch and board in front of it. The entire field was surrounded by barbed wire, and the fence had three openings, flanked by watchtowers (making a total of six towers). When the cart entered this obscure little village, the place was empty. 

“They are all at work,” one of the guards mentioned. “You won’t be taken to your barrack until after work tomorrow, so you will sleep in the hold tonight.” 

Hans was taken into the large cement building, where the remainder of the evening was spent with the guards, being tossed from room to room. In one room, three buckets of freezing water were dumped over his head. In another, his hair was cut back until it was even shorter than it had been before his punishment began a year ago. In yet another, he was given a prisoner’s uniform, a dark, loose shirt and black trousers, both made of a rough burlap. It was here he was also given work boots, brown and too big for his feet. In the last room, he was examined by a doctor and a dentist, which surprised him. Why did they bother looking after the health of their prisoners? 

The doctor expressed concern for his weight, and the dentist made note of a tooth in the back of Hans’ jaw with a golden crown. That tooth had been filed down and capped when hans was a teenager, after an infection began eating away at it. 

“No gold is allowed to prisoners,” one of the guards escorting Hans noted. “We will bring you in five days to have it pulled.” 

Have it pulled?! When he had the crown placed on the molar years ago, Hans was given brandy, both to drink and to apply topically, to avoid the pain of the procedure. Surely there was no brandy here! 

Hans chose to put the thought out of his mind and he was thrown into a tiny, windowless room with nothing but a bucket and a thin sheet. 

“This is the hold,” one of his guards informed him. “Make note of how you feel after spending a night in here...prisoners who rebel or cause trouble spend weeks in here with one meal a day.”   
“Welcome to Innløsning, Your Highness,” said the other, chortling at the mockery.

With that, the door was shut, and Hans was left in total darkness. Aware of how alone he was, Hans did not hesitate to unfurl his mask of dignity and break down, curling into a ball in the far corner of the room, passing out from exhaustion and fear.   
\---  
It felt like months had passed when Hans felt a cold, wet sensation fall across his face and shoulder. He startled awake to find Commander Leif standing in the open doorway. 

“Good morning, Princess,” he snarled, holding an empty bucket. “It’s time for work.” 

As he was being escorted out of the cement building, the Commander placed a small, hard chunk of bread in Hans’ hand. “Breakfast every day,” he indicated. 

This is it? Hans complained. No man...not even a child...could begin a day on a ration like this!

Nevertheless, Hans ate the bread, famished from the day before. The bread was gritty and the crust was glasslike, almost as if someone had mixed sawdust into the dough. Hans could taste a small amount of blood as the crust came off in shards while chewing. 

Outside, Hans and the Commander arrived just as eight long lines of people, all sizes and colors, were filing out of each of the wooden barracks and forming rows of ten in front. Hans couldn’t believe how many individuals were pouring out of each one...were they bigger on the inside? 

There were men, women, children, the elderly, and all shapes and sizes in these groups. At a rough estimate, Hans believed there were at least eight-hundred of them. Perhaps more. They all were covered in filth to varying degrees, and their prison uniforms were tattered and torn. Women wore skirts instead of trousers, and some of the small children were barefoot and naked, wrapped in blankets to form makeshift robes. All of them must have had their heads shorn upon arrive like Hans, but he didn’t see a single bare head in the crowd. Women had long, heavy hair falling about their bodies in snarls and tangles. Men had scraggly beards and hair reaching at least to their shoulders. 

Hans felt ready to retch. 

“Stay here with Corporal Lambi while we do roll call,” the Commander ordered. Hans stayed put as the Commander began his work, and Corporal Lambi stepped up to take his place. 

“Roll call is at five o’clock in the morning every day,” Lambi informed. “Missing roll call for any reason results in whipping over there, in front of the others.”

Lambi directed Hans to look at the towering scaffold (easily fifteen feet high) that branched off of the cement house. It was stocked with a gallows, a whipping block, and a set of stocks. Hans shuddered. 

“You execute people here?” he whispered. Lambi grinned maliciously. 

“I carry them out myself,” he bragged. “Some people never learn, Princess.”

Roll call took two and a half hours to complete. Commander Leif was extremely thorough. Hans saw several people fall to the ground from exhaustion in standing there for that length of time. When someone fell, two guards would come over and drag the person unceremoniously back into their barrack. For the entirety of the ritual, everyone was silent as stone, even the children. 

When it finally ended, the lines of prisoners marched towards one of the three exits, each being handed a similar heel of bread that Hans had already eaten before disappearing down the side of the hill. 

“Come on, then,” Commander Leif implored Hans and Corporal Lambi to follow him. 

The trio followed a path down the west side of the hill, which forked. The left fork led down to a giant brown hole in the ground at the base of the hill, filled with water and, now, workers. Overseers were high off the ground on platforms or horseback. The prisoners began wading in the brown lake, wielding shovels and rakes. Children followed the adults into the water, holding large burlap sacks. 

“The prisoners rotate work every eight weeks, and each barrack works as a team on a different site about the island,” said Lambi. “You’re with the C-barrack, who have just begun the two-month work period here in the mudding pit. We harvest mud and clay here, which is bagged, sorted, and sent to the other side where they make bricks and send them out.” 

Commander Leif held out a rake to Hans, who stared at it before taking it cautiously, as if it were poisonous. “Go, idiot,” he said sharply. “Get to work! They’ll show you how!”

As it turned out, Hans was a quick learner. Once he submerged himself to the knees in the brown water, he taught himself how to rake the bottom of the pit so the mud would gather in a lump at his feet. It took him a while to learn not to move his feet very much, because stirring the water would cause the mud to disperse again. Once the lump was large enough, he would have to call for a child with a sack to come and gather the mud. Then, Hans moved far enough to the side to begin raking a new spot. 

The work was backbreaking, between lifting the heavy loads of mud into the sacks, stooping over to rake the floor of the pool, and keeping balance to avoid falling in, the physical labor was strenuous at best. Hans’ muscles grew sore before the sun was at its’ highest point in the sky. Looking around him, he noticed that even the children were able to carry on more than he. 

Children? What are they doing here anyhow? How could any of them possibly commit a crime harsh enough to warrant being exiled?

At high noon, an ear-shattering whistle blew. Hans saw the other mudders begin to leave the water and make their way towards two guards, who had set up a large cauldron in between them. Some of the prisoners close to the guards were already untying small mugs that had been tied to their waists. A queue formed, and one of the guards brought out a ladle. He commenced scooping the liquid inside the cauldron into each person’s mug. One a prisoner got his liquid, he moved away and sat in another very neat line to drink. 

Hans realized that he’d never been given such a mug. Perhaps they had one waiting for him when the got up to the cauldron? 

It took Hans a long time to get into the line, as he still had not developed the right footing to keep his balance in the mud pool, let alone walk steadily in it. His legs toiled just to move him forward, they so ached after only a few hours of hard work. Thus far, he had at least avoided falling into the slime and humiliating himself. 

For as long as the line was, it moved with unexpected efficiency. Hans was at the front before too long. 

“Mug,” the guard with the ladle prompted Hans. 

“I haven’t been given one,” Hans answered. 

“Then move,” the guard replied. 

“Excuse me, but I haven’t been served! I have been laboring vigorously all morning and I need nourishment!” Hans insisted haughtily. 

“Some labor,” muttered a man behind him. “Only two sacks filled!” A few others chuckled. 

Hans whipped his head around to offer a the excuse of it behind his first day, when he looked upon three very tall men, very lean, but all muscle. He immediately decided to refrain from addressing them. 

“If you don’t have a mug, get out of the line,” barked the guard. 

“Then how am I to eat?” Hans implored, his voice raising in frustration. 

The ladling guard gave a knowing look to the other, who stepped out and grabbed Hans’ hands, forcing them to form a bowl. Before Hans could register what was being done, the ladling guard took a ladle full of the liquid and poured it into Hans’ hands. 

The broth was scorching hot. 

Hans howled out in shock and pain while the guard raised the ladle, whipping him on the ear with it. Then, the other guard shoved him with enough force to send him careening away from the line and rolling onto his back. 

When Hans sat up, the guards were laughing, along with some of the prisoners in line. His hands were throbbing, the burning sensation enough to make Hans blink back a tear. The skin was already blistering and inflamed. How could he work with them now? Hans had the feeling that he was still going to be expected to do what he had been doing all morning with these same hands. And now, without food, his energy was going to drain even faster than it had in the morning. 

Everything began to swirl around Hans as he attempted to regain his bearings enough to get to his feet, but his equilibrium failed him, and he stayed on his knees on the muddy ground. 

From behind him, he could begin to hear raised voices in a language he couldn’t identify or understand. Based on the rapid tone and heightened pitches, it sounded like a woman was arguing with one of the three prisoners who’d taunted him in the line. The argument climaxed, and after another moment, Hans sensed a body walk over and sink down into the dirt with him. 

“Parādiet man rokas,” said the visitor. It was the arguing woman. Her voice was low and raspy. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t under--”

“Show me your hands, then,” the young woman repeated in Hans’ native language. Hans obeyed without looking up at her as she studied them. 

She muttered again in the foreign tongue. “This is not very good,” she diagnosed. 

“Excellent well,” Hans mumbled. To his surprise, he heard the woman giggle. She got to her feet and ran off for a moment in the direction of the guards. Hans could not hear the exchange of words, but the woman was back in a flash. She began tugging gently at his elbow, helping him to his feet. 

“We have thirty minutes,” she said. “Come to the barrack with me. I can fix these hands.”


	6. Noma

The young woman guided Hans, still reeling from the overwhelming pain in his hands and head, up the hill to the village at the top. She brought him to C-barrack and took him inside as swiftly as she had first appeared. 

Hans had yet to see the inside of the barracks, and what he found was appalling. Bunks, three tiers high, lined both sides of the room, creating a long, narrow hallway down the middle. A rudimentary basin was at the far end of the building...it vaguely resembled a toilet. Each bunk had a tiny, thin mattress, and no pillows or blankets. Counting, Hans couldn’t make the math in his head line up: there were still not enough beds for everyone he’d seen come out of the barracks that morning, nor for all the prisoners down at the mud pit, or even half of them. 

“Come,” the young woman demanded. Hans had no choice but to rush after her down to the toilet. She leaned down by it and looked up at Hans. “Put your hands in here.” 

“What?” Hans shrank back. “That’s repulsive!”

“We clean it out as best we can every morning before roll call so it doesn’t stink in here when we return,” the girl explained. “The water is clean! Do it, or your hands will get worse!” 

When Hans hesitated for another moment, the girl rolled her eyes and grabbed his forearms, forcing him to his knees and submerging his burned hands in the basin. 

“AGH!” Hans hollered. The stinging grew worse, not better. 

“Keep them there as long as you can...I’ll get the aloe,” the woman instructed before darting back down the hallway, stopping at a bunk halfway through and climbing skillfully to the top. From what hans could see while not removing his hands and squinting from the pain, the woman knelt up on the mattress, nearly hitting her head on the ceiling. She was fumbling around the rafter, feeling for something. After a moment, she smiled and extracted something green, then hopping down off the bunk and making her way back to Hans, who was still gritting his teeth against the agony. 

“Just one more moment in the water,” she assured Hans, reaching out a hand to pat his cheek gently like a mother would do to a child. Then, she showed him what she’d retrieved...it looked like a large, meaty leaf from a plant. She then took out a very small knife, no bigger than her palm, and sliced the stems in half.

“What is that?” Hans asked, still frantic. 

“Aloe,” the young woman replied. “There is a spot on the island it grows wild. Luckily, it doesn’t need a lot of rain or soil to grow.” 

“And how will it heal my hands?” Hans asked. 

“Give them,” the girl commanded. Hans tenderly removed his hands from the water. The dry air being exposed to them made them hurt even more...at least until the girl swiftly wrapped the open aloe around his hands and followed with a few strips of cloth she had also brought with her. 

The relief wasn’t instant, but over the following few minutes, the distress left Hans as the pain began to recede. 

“This plant...it’s miraculous!” Hans whispered. The girl shook her head. 

“No, aloe, I said,” she replied. “I found the patch of them a while ago. I harvest them sometimes when I can slip away during lunch and keep them above my bed. I use them to trade for goods most of the time. I haven’t used it directly like this for a long while.” The girl seemed quite proud of herself. 

“You know what you’re doing, girl, that’s certain,” Hans remarked. The woman shook her head and scowled. 

“My name is Noma,” she informed him. “Not girl.” 

“Oh,” Hans muttered. 

“I only know what I’m doing because I did it for my father and my sister on separate occasions,” Noma answered the remark. She examined Hans’ bandaged hands one more time and sighed. “You should be able to avoid infection, anyway. And you aren’t familiar with the work yet, so if you’re slow, they won’t fret. I will change the aloe tomorrow night,” she said. 

“If I live that long,” Hans replied quietly. 

“You will,” Noma assured him. “If I could do it from infancy, you can do it from here. However, you will need to eat sooner or later. I’ll take some aloe and see what I can organize for you as far as mugs and spoons go.”

“Organize?” Hans asked. Noma nodded.

“Our word for trading and stealing,” she admitted. “Strictly speaking, economy is forbidden here, but we have our ways.” 

“Wait a moment,” said Hans, backtracking in his head. “You’ve been here from infancy?”

Noma nodded slowly. “I wasn’t born here. My sister Ingrid was, though. I was less than two years old when my grandfather and father were arrested.”

“On what charge?”

“Conspiracy.” 

“Why did they bring you here?” Hans asked, confused. “If your grandfather and father did something--”

Hans’ voice trailed off as he got his first good look at her. Noma had a round face, and very large, gray eyes. Her hair was stringy and long, a dull color halfway between blonde and brown. In spite of the mud all over her face and body, her skin was clear and tanned from sun exposure. Her ears stuck out, giving her head the vague shape of a sugar bowl. Her nose was soft and small, her lips plump and red. She was giving him an inquisitive look, but there was a hint of sadness behind it as well. She would have never been able to hold a candle next to the beauties of the court, but Hans found her almost attractive, maybe even pretty. 

“How do you not know about Skyldfølelse etter Fødselen? Are you a hermit or a shut in?” she asked, almost amused. 

“Guilt by birth?” asked Hans. “You mean to say..?”

Noma nodded. “Sins of the father, bad blood, whatever the excuse, a criminal sent here has his whole family come with him, to keep them away from good people, I suppose.” 

“But...your sister was born here, you said!” 

Noma nodded again. “And we will both die here,” she sighed. “It’s measured in generations. If I had children, they would be free and allowed to live away from here.” 

“You mean, you have the option to have children here too?” Hans asked in disbelief. Who would want to raise children in a prison colony? 

“Believe it or not, some people even take that option,” she answered. “I am old enough, but I don’t want to. Nor do any of the men here care much for me to commit to father my children.” 

“And--”

“--I will be twenty-seven at the autumn equinox.”

Hans supposed that Noma was a mind-reader as well. 

“That explains the children here,” Hans said solemnly. His thoughts drifted to Rosagunde for a moment. Noma nodded. 

“You’ll get used to a lot of this, I promise,” she said after a moment. “Life sentence?”  
“Oh no!” Hans assured her. “I will be out of here in ten years...and I have a grant to go visit home once every three months.”

Noma gave Hans an odd look. “What do you mean? Who did you fuck to get that kind of allowance, the King and Queen?” 

Hans’ jaw dropped to the floor upon hearing a woman utter such an obscenity, not to mention suggesting that he would whore himself for a favor with either a woman or a man.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, insulted. 

“I see I’ve hit some kind of nerve. I’m sorry. You’re new, so you still have some of the protocol of your old life in your head. That will go away too.” 

“It certainly will not,” Hans insisted. “I’m better than that.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Noma said, shaking her head and scowling. “That mindset will get you whipped or worse. It might even earn you a ‘date’ with one of the Giants--”

“--you are losing me again,” Hans said quickly. 

“The Giants. Those men in line behind you today, the ones who mocked you. They sometimes take others away in the evenings before curfew and...well...they…” Noma trailed off, shuddering to think of what she was about to say. 

“What?”

“They rape them,” she finally finished. “Men and women, sometimes even adolescents who’ve never had sex. There are children in the camp fathered by them even though none of them have wives. They are utterly insatiable.” 

“And the guards do nothing?!” asked Hans swallowing hard. 

“You know they don’t,” Noma answered. “They get to many people. They got to my sister when she was only twelve.They didn’t get to me because I hit one with a rake and they ran off.”

Hans had no idea what to say to this. So much dark knowledge was being thrown at him by this...this insane woman who was talking about all of it as if it were a trigonometry lesson. 

“So do NOT ever say you are better than anyone here. Because the Giants will find out and show you otherwise.” 

Hans nodded silently. 

“Not to mention, it is a lie. You are not better than anyone else here. Innløsning is a great equalizer,” she sighed sadly. 

“But you don’t understand, I am a Prince,” he told her. Noma stared at him a moment and grinned. 

“Of course you are,” she remarked with a deadpan tone. “What is your name?”

“Hans Westergaard,” he answered. Noma grinned again, showing off that one of her upper incisors was missing, giving her a silly look (although Hans found it almost endearing to her appearance). 

“Westergaard. Indeed, then,” she chuckled. Noma got to her feet and gave a deep, sweeping bow. “Well, Prince Hans Westergaard, I do believe we should return to the pit to resume our royal duties.”

Hans grunted, not amused by the joke. Perhaps the first thing he had to do, besides acquire a soup mug, was to develop a thicker skin, and fast. Or else Noma would be right...he would never survive Innløsning.  
\---  
At the end of the day, an hour before sunset, the shrill whistle blew again. The mudders left their work, turned in their tools, and stood in line for an evening roll call (thankfully briefer than the morning line up). After, they trudged up the hill in single file and reported to C-barrack. The other groups were coming back up the hill at the exact same time from their own duties. Hans wondered what those duties were. He knew he would find out eventually. 

Hans’ hands still hurt considerably, but the pain was bearable. He’d barely been able to hold the rake like he had in the morning, so he’d taken up a sack and hauled mud from the water pit to the wagons that would take it around to the bricking part of the island instead. The mud was exceptionally heavy, and he couldn’t imagine how the children were doing it. 

In the first day of exile, Hans had been knee-deep in a mud pit, forced to harvest slime, burned and mocked, introduced to a crazy woman who could work wonders with plants but seemed rather dim in the ways of social interaction, and starved because he didn’t have a simple mug to drink broth from. For most of the afternoon, Hans grumbled in self pity, wondering how Princess Anna and Queen Elsa would have reacted to his fall from grace. Surely the King would have sent them correspondence informing them of his exile? It was somewhat relevant news to them, even though a year had passed since his Great Shame against them. 

At the village, the fences were shut for the evening, the guards took their places in the towers, and dinner was handed out. As Hans still didn’t have a mug, he was forced to forgo the meal line and ignore his roaring stomach. He went towards the barrack, standing in the doorway and choosing to observe what the other prisoners did in the evenings. 

Some went off towards another of the barracks. Some went into the C-barrack and sat on the bunk with their meals. Some chose to sit on the rock formation outside the building, where Hans saw a small fire pit had been forged out of dry brush and logs. An older man worked for a few minutes, finally lighting the fire. Then, more fire pits were lit, and more people sat down around them with their meals. They began laughing and talking as if the hardships of the day no longer existed. Children began chasing each other around the barracks. Guards kept their distance, but were present nonetheless. 

“How are your hands, kid?” came a voice from behind Hans. He turned to see where the voice came from: it was a middle-aged man with a long beard and a hunched back. Hans hadn’t noticed him before. Instead of answering, Hans turned back around silently. The man didn’t take the hint. 

“She gave you the aloe, didn’t she?” 

“What?” Hans turned back around on reflex. 

“Noma, when she took you away,” the man replied. “She put those green leaves on your hands.” 

Hans nodded. The man smiled and reached into his pocket. 

“It’s not much, but I’m not hungry tonight,” he said, holding a small piece of bread and something else. Hans looked at the man hesitantly...as if there was some ulterior motive. After a moment’s pause, Hans reached out with a bandaged hand and took the food. The other things, as it turned out, was a slice of cheese and a slice of sausage. Hans ate these greedily, without even thanking his benefactor. 

He didn’t seem to mind the lapse in manners, however. In fact, he almost looked pleased at Hans’ enthusiasm for his offering. “She’s my daughter.”

“Who? That girl? Noma?” Hans asked. The man nodded. 

“I’m Sigurd,” he introduced himself. “Noma is my elder daughter.” 

“I see,” Hans said, hoping the short reply would give the man the hint at last.

Instead, he barely lost a beat. “We are being worked into our graves for twelve hours a day in retribution for trite offenses, but in the evenings, we do what we can to get along. We sit around the fire pits, tell stories, and give each other the hope we need to wake up in the morning.” 

Taking a deep breath, Hans turned back to the outside, looking at the people around the closest fire pit. Noma was there, leaning in and whispering to a smaller girl, perhaps sixteen-or-so years old. The younger girl actually giggled, which made Noma laugh in return. 

“That’s my younger one, Ingrid. She looks so much like her mother,” Sigurd said dreamily. “And she is lucky...she was born here. She will never know what life is like out there.” 

“How can you say that?” Hans asked, suddenly offended. “You would rather your own child never know comfort and freedom?”

“Comfort? Freedom? Ha,” Sigurd laughed sarcastically. “Unless you have a large sum of money to your name, you don’t have comfort or freedom, boy.” 

Hans gave a look that implored Sigurd to elaborate. 

“This island is a horrible place. We are treated like worker ants not worth the mud we gather. But here, we have roofs over our heads at night, and we all come together at night in fellowship. Where we lived before my arrest, and my father’s arrest, was on Central Isle, where we spent every night under a tree in the park. My wife was compelled to sell her body to feed Noma solid food. My father and I had to fight off others who wanted our tree for shelter during winter rainstorms. We could not trust anyone. When we were caught, we had been selling pamphlets to foreign sailors condemning our tyrant of a king, and urging people to tell others about the plight of the poor people of the Southern Isles.” 

Hans took a moment to let it sink in. 

“My wife fell pregnant a second time when we’d been here for over ten years. Soon after she gave birth to Ingrid, she became overwhelmed with depression, and she went mad for it. Before Ingrid was a year old, my wife threw herself in front of a stone breaker as he swung his pick axe down,” Sigurd told him. “But Ingrid cannot remember her. Ingrid only knows this life. The people here are united. We don’t have to fight each other for shelter or food.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?” Hans asked. “You don’t even know my name. Why don’t you keep all of this morbid history of your to yourself and leave me alone?” Hans briskly walked away towards the back of the barrack, where he sat alone until the final whistle of the day blew, announcing curfew for all of the prisoners. The fire pits were extinguished, and C-barracks grew crowded and stifling hot as more than one hundred people filed in and fell into their bunks for the evening, four people to a mattress, lying sideways. 

Hans swallowed his pride for the first time and chose a floor-level mattress with only two men on it, both much older and feeble. He found himself dozing off rather quickly in spite of the incredibly uncomfortable bedding. As his eyelids closed wearily, he could hear the sounds of people whispering to their bedmates, girls giggling, mothers singing lullabies…

...the last thought Hans had that night was how he’d never heard a lullaby before, and how nice it must have been to fall asleep to the dulcet tones of a mother’s song.  
\--  
When Hans was frightened awake the following morning by the whistle, he realized that something had been placed in his dangling hand during the night. As his eyes came into focus, he could see it was a perfectly clean metallic mug, a string attached to the handle.


	7. Looking Down

“I see you found a mug,” the cruel guard with the ladle from yesterday remarked with irony. “And I was going to pour it on your face today.”

Hans bit his lip and allowed the guard to have his moment. All he needed was to look down at his bandaged, still-sore hands to be reminded of what happened to dissenters. He simply held out the mug, waiting for it to be filled. The scalding broth was poured into the cup, and Hans obediently moved away, toward the long line of prisoners having lunch. 

He was not only sore, but incredibly stiff. Yesterday’s exertions were enough to almost paralyze him, and yet he had to continue work. In the morning, he’d tried to approach a guard from the mud pit and ask for a moment’s rest. A single look from the guard indicated that it would not have been a successful plea. Thus, Hans continued mudding, along with everyone else. 

Back on Central Isle, Hans had been doing menial labor for a year, but mucking the horse stables or scrubbing the palace floors was a waltz compared to his present occupation. His body, while fit and trim, was not used to the abuse it was taking, not only from the mudding, but from the burns, scrapes, bruises, hits, and tumbles. His face was growing red from prolonged exposure to the sun. Though able to eat again, the quality of his daily food combined with the downsizing of the amount of it was leading to a miserable bout of indigestion that Hans feared would end in a rather humiliating way unless he found a place to relieve himself soon.

The broth currently in his mug appeared to be the standard noontime fare. Carefully bringing the soup to his lips, Hans allowed a small amount to pass his lips. He had expected a rancid-tasting substance, but the broth itself wasn’t entirely terrible. It was watery and had hardly any flavoring at all. He could have dunked a tea bag into it and had a piping hot cup of chamomile like he used to have before bed as a boy. But there was a hint of chicken flavor that sank to the bottom as Hans continued to drink. It wasn’t enough to satisfy Hans’ very real hunger, however. 

He leaned over to the child sitting next to him in line, a girl with her deep black hair wrapped in a headscarf. 

“Is this all we get?” Hans asked. 

The girl nodded silently. 

“And we are expected to be able to work effectively for six hours more on this ration? Do these guards have any sort of brain?” he berated. 

The girl stared up at him blankly, either confused at his words or interested in what broth he may have had left in his mug. Hans chose not to address her again. She looked no more than six, she probably didn’t even know the meaning of half of the words he spoke. 

He looked up and saw Noma near the end of the soup line, talking eagerly with the younger girl, her sister, she had been laughing with the night before. They were again conversing in the strange language Hans didn’t understand, but their inflections matched the heavy accent that Sigurd had in his tone when they spoke the night before. 

Sigurd had to have been out of his mind. There was no way that a life on this Gud-forsaken island was preferable to a free existence anywhere else in the country. It was possible that the old man had gone batty from the years of captivity. Perhaps, when he went home for a visit in a few months’ time, he could plead for the release of Noma and her sister. Probably not Sigurd, who had an actual crime to his record, but the girls had to at least stand a chance of being freed.

Freedom! Hans already knew what he would do the minute he got back to the Central Isle. He was going to eat a full, rich meal, and many different cakes and desserts. Then, he would spend a full hour wallowing in a hot bath. Then, at the end of each day, whether or not he was in his old bed or his pallet from the past year, he was going to stretch himself out into a big ‘X’ and relish in the fact that the bed was entirely his. 

“Hello there, Your Majesty!” 

Hans lifted his gaze to meet Noma’s and her sister’s. She was grinning again. 

“This is my sister, Ingrid,” she introduced the girl next to her. Ingrid, in response, gave an exaggerated curtsy that, while silly-looking, might have actually passed as good form in the court. Hans responded halfheartedly by nodding his head. 

“You still don’t believe me,” Hans moaned. “I think it would behoove you to call me Hans.” 

Noma sat down in front of him and shrugged. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

Ingrid giggled. “You’re crazy already! And you have been here two days?”

Hans decided to let the matter drop entirely. 

“How are your hands?” Noma asked, peering over to catch a glimpse. Hans raised one for her to examine. “No redness or itch? And the pain?”

Hans shrugged with indifference. “It burns, but it’s tolerable,” he replied. Noma nodded. 

“One more night with the aloe. I will change them after supper,” she concluded. “Just...use your mug now that you have one.”

“Was it you who found it for me?” Hans asked. Noma nodded. 

“It’s new because no one was trading last night, so I had to go to a guard,” she explained. 

“A guard?” Hans thought a moment before the audacious idea popped into his head. “You mean to say you--”

“--I will say nothing other than I procured the mug for you, so please don’t bring it up again,” Noma said quickly. She looked over at Ingrid, who was biting her lip. Hans didn’t want to think of what that crazy girl might have done just to get a cup for him to drink from. His first instinct was practically unspeakable. 

Hans began to prod against his better judgement. “But would you just--” 

“--listen up, peasants!” Everyone’s attentions turned to Commander Leif, who was standing by the vat of soup. The two lesser guards were now standing at attention. The prisoners sitting in the line all jumped to their feet. “There will be a lashing in one hour. You will all attend.” 

Hans looked at Noma and Ingrid. Ingrid’s eyes went wide with fear. Noma put her arms around her sister and said something in the foreign tongue. Then, she turned to Hans. 

“I hope you fully stomach that broth before then, and try to look down as much as possible.”   
\---  
Everyone was summoned from the pool exactly one hour later. Hans had barely begun his afternoon work. The prisoners formed two straight lines, one line for females and children, the other for males. Hans couldn’t make out where Noma, Ingrid, or Sigurd were. The lines were marched up the hill in a brisk, timely pace. As if it was timed to the second, they arrived back at the the top of the hill just as the other groups were materializing. It took only a few minutes for the groups to be lined up in meticulous rows in front of the high wooden scaffold by the cement house in the center of the hill. 

After everyone was in place, a few minutes of inactivity went by. Hans was able to make out the figured he thought were Ingrid and Noma, two rows in front of him, the taller individual with her arm discreetly placed around the smaller. 

“Prisoners, attend,” Commander Leif barked, mounting the scaffold with two other guards. One of them carried a cat o’nine-tails in his grip. “These are lessons for all of you. You are expected to watch, listen, and learn from all of these. Any fainting, vomiting, swaying, or speaking out of line will result in three days and nights in the hold.”

Hans shuddered. One night in that box of a room was more than enough for him to stand. Three days in that place would probably drive anyone to delusions or worse. 

“Bring him,” the Commander signaled to a guard on the ground. He ducked inside a moment,and Hans craned his neck in order to spot the unlucky transgressor.   
Two guards were holding a short, frail boy of no more than thirteen or fourteen years. He had thin, blonde hair that covered his eyes, and he wore no shoes, nor did he wear a shirt. He looked defiant, but there was no struggle as he was led to the scaffold and forced to climb the steps. 

“It’s Axel.”

“Oh no.” 

“Axel? What could he have done?”

“Disse monstrene.”

Hans couldn’t believe what he was looking at. A mere child, possibly not even pubescent, as indicated by his tiny size, was about to be publicly punished? For what? Murder? One of the whispering voices around him was correct...these guards were monsters. 

Commander Leif unrolled a scroll of official-looking parchment and began to read from it.

“Axel Olsen, you have been charged and found guilty of stealing from the guards’ food stores, procuring four pieces of bread and approximately a quarter of a pound of meat. As punishment, and to serve as a lesson to your fellows, you will be bound and whipped at the block a total not to exceed ten lashes,” he announced, a certain sort of perverse pleasure in his voice. 

Hans had witnessed executions before, but never a whipping. He wasn’t sure why the boy started to shake at the announcement that he was condemned to ten lashes, but how bad could that have possibly been? Hans heard that most criminals got between thirty and forty lashes for most trespasses. Surely ten would be over and done with quickly, and Noma could visit later and give the boy some of that miracle plant that had spared himself much pain? 

Axel was forced to his knees over the block, and his hands were bound to the each side with rope. He laid face-down over the block, turning his head to the side to breathe.The Commander took the cat o’nine tails in his own grip and unfurled it. It was long, shiny, and black. The twine was thick...and glass shards were woven into the rope. 

Commander Leif raised the whip above his head, and--CRACK!-it came down hard onto the boy’s back. He replied with a high-pitched holler so desperate, it made Hans’ stomach churn. His body struggled against the pain, but the Commander only recoiled briefly before he dealt another blow...the boy’s cry this time was louder. 

Hans felt pain on his own body, but not the aches he felt from his hard labor. He suddenly had a memory of his brothers and himself in their childhoods. Once, Alban, Flavius, and Caleb had found Hans wandering towards his room after a fencing lesson. They caught him like a rat in a trap and dragged him around a corner. While Flavius and Alba disrobed him, restrained him, and forced him face down onto the ground, Caleb undid his belt and began whipping Hans with it violently on his naked backside. Caleb was relentless for a solid fifteen minutes, to the point Hans had stopped struggling and just silently taken each blow. 

He never found out what it was for, but the welts running up and down his back throbbed for weeks afterwards...a reminder that he was never safe, even in his own home. 

Three...four...five…

The Commander was beginning to take longer pauses in between cracks of the whip. Axel was shaking violently after only five hits. 

Six...seven…

Hans could see Ingrid try to turn away from the view, but Noma held her still. If she didn’t watch, she could end up in the hold, or worse, on the same scaffold. But there was no chance these brutes would whip females...would they?

Nine...ten.

Commander Leif finally let up on the boy, who was weakened enough to be slumped over the block, hardly stirring now. Axel was untied, then forced to his feet and turned around so that the crown of prisoners could see the damage done. 

Hans winced and felt sick again. The boy’s back was red with blood. Ten fresh scars scored over his tanned skin, dripping and inflamed. The skin had been shredded, and in two places where the scars intersected, Hans swore that even from the distance he was at, he saw exposed muscle. 

“He will spend one week in the hold for this as well,” the Commander informed him. “What have we learned today?”

After a seconds-long pause, the prisoners chimed in unison: “We will not steal food from the guards’ storage.”

The Commander nodded in approval, then shoved Axel into an associate guard’s arms, after which he slipped away as Axel was led back into the stone building. The guards on the scaffold began shouting: “Back to work!” “Lazy dogs!” and “No more to see!”  
\---

“Will he die from his injuries?” Hans asked later, trying to keep his voice as monotonous as possible. He had decided to join Noma, Ingrid, and Sigurd around the fire pit after supper that evening. After what he witnessed, he had many questions that needed quick answering. 

Noma shrugged. “Some of the stronger ones survive. It’s more or less about whether the scars become diseased if they aren’t washed out. He may have a chance, seeing as he wasn’t put back into work instantaneously. He’ll be locked up, away from diseases.” 

“He was….so young,” Hans murmured. Ingrid nodded. 

“There have been younger,” she confessed. “I was given five lashes for waking up late for the morning roll call.”

“And how old were you?”

“Fourteen. Axel is tiny for his age. He is sixteen.”

Hans didn’t expect that answer. That boy couldn’t have possibly been sixteen. Most boys, even Hans (who was a late bloomer in physical development), were becoming men in the physical sense by that age. Axel looked like a small boy.

“But I was lucky,” Ingrid added. “They didn’t make everyone watch me. They pulled me out of line and forced me onto my knees. It felt like lightning on my back.” 

“Everyone watched mine when I got fifteen for being caught trading,” Noma added.Hans turned to her. Noma nodded in response to his shocked face. “Yes, me too. Practically everyone has. I know you will have to endure it too, soon.”

“Oh no,” Hans shook his head, disbelieving. “If I keep my head down and not break rules--”

Sigurd shook his head slowly, making Hans stop mid-sentence. “They will find a charge for you. It’s almost an initiation into the camp. Or a fellow prisoner will lay blame on your head to escape a punishment of their own.” 

Hans shuddered and looked into the fire. There was only enough wood allowed for a small pit every night. Even now, as the work day was over, guards stood nearby to ensure the fire was used only for the purpose of light and heat as the sun went down. Hans had wondered why prisoners were allotted this luxury. Perhaps it was to quell any thoughts of rebellion within the establishment. After all, Hans had read in the history books of cultures allowing slaves to get drunk every night on cheap beer to keep them from rising up in the middle of the night. 

“How...how can you let them treat you like this?” Hans whispered, still trying not to show emotion. 

Sigurd shrugged. “I do blame myself for this,” he said. “But when a criminal forfeits their freedom, isn’t this all he deserves?”

No, Hans thought immediately. If they don’t warrant a death sentence, they should at least be given more than this. And their children should not be taken away from the world as well. 

“I’ve seen what other countries do to their criminals,” Hans admitted. “And I have never seen a...camp. A camp like this. I’ve seen cells and scaffolds, and even some torture chambers for interrogations, but never this.” 

“You’ve been abroad?” asked Noma with interest. “What were you outside? A tradesman?”

Hans suppressed a laugh. They still didn’t believe who he was! 

“Let’s just say, I’ve seen quite a few places.” 

“Have you ever been to Lavania?” asked Sigurd. 

Hans shook his head. “That’s too far to the east, so I can’t say that I have.”

“It’s where I came from,” Sigurd said. “As a much younger man. I was an apprentice who came here with a merchant and never went home. I learned the language, met a citizen and married her, and earned my stay.”

Hans raised an eyebrow. He knew his father’s feelings toward immigrants. King Hagen deeply distrusted foreigners who came to the Isles to stay. They threw off the status quo, and, according to his law, deserved to be closely spied on in case they were reporting illicit activities back to their motherland. 

“I made it my business to teach my daughters the language of their heritage as well as the language of the Northern Kingdoms,” Sigurd continued. “But that didn’t sit well with authorities of course. It made us look suspicious.” 

“I see” Hans shifted awkwardly on the ground where he sat. He didn’t want to admit that he’d allowed his father’s prejudices to seep into his own way of thinking over time. He didn’t know much about Lavania, but growing up, every country outside of the Northern Kingdoms was just as shady and just as foreign. 

“Why did you come here? To the Isles?” asked Hans, curious. Sigurd sighed. 

“For a new start.” He remained silent after that, staring into the fire as if his head had floated off into some other dimension. 

“Papa,” Noma mumbled. “It’s nearly curfew.” 

Sigurd nodded quietly and allowed his daughter to help him to his feet to begin guiding him into the barrack. Ingrid and Hans stayed by the fire a moment longer. 

“We know how he feels,” Ingrid explained. “We let him feel it, and instead try to tell him through our actions that we don’t care.”

“You don’t mind being in this hellhole?” asked Hans. 

“Oh, we do,” Ingrid answered. “It would be nice to live a normal life...but when this is all you know, you learn to be grateful for the little things. Noma and I have our father, and we are a family that cannot be torn apart by anything. We are strong and have adapted to the hard way of life here. That is all we can hope for.” 

Hans let her go into the barrack after her father and sister, while he stared back into the fire as it faded. The embers glowed an animated, beautiful red and orange. It was mesmerizing, and it took Hans a good fifteen minutes to re-establish his place in the real world before he could get up and walk inside for what was sure to be another sleepless night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I was wondering if anyone wanted to give me some feedback on how this is going so far? Thanks!


	8. The Return to Innocence

The wheel of the seasons turned, and autumn was soon upon the Southern Isles. However, the weather didn't seem to reflect the change in the least. It remained just as hot and dry as it had been for the entire summer. The only thing that did change was the duty of C-barrack, which moved from mudding to stone-breaking on the opposite end of the island. Noma had explained to Hans the reason for this shift in work as a way to keep the prisoners from getting too comfortable. Each 'duty' worked different parts of the body, and as time passed, the entire musculature would grow to ache and throb in equal parts.

Stone-breaking was worse than mudding. Hans, along with everyone else, was forced to use heavy, dulled pickaxes to break apart boulders into small-enough pebbles to be shipped out over the archipelago to be used as paving stones. It was even more mindless than mudding. Hans' shoulders ached from lifting the piles of pebbles and the repetitive motions of the pickaxe going over his head and down to the rock. It would take as many as ten days for ten prisoners to beat a single boulder apart, because the pickaxes were not sharp and even fractured.

"At least it's not mudding," Noma said with indifference.

Hans grunted as he worked away the days. Noma wasn't all right in the head, of that he was certain. Hans preferred the mudding. At the end of a day of mud-raking, he'd be coated in slime from head to toe...but it was preferred to the dust entering his eyes and making him blind, or the shards of rock getting embedded into his open wounds, which he would have to pick out on his own after the day was done.

Hans witnessed many more beatings. On average, four or five per week was typical. No one seemed immune to the flogging block: women, men, children, the elderly...anyone who committed the smallest transgression was vulnerable. Being a smart man, Hans kept his head down, and no matter how much pain he was, learned to jump as high as the guards wanted him to, thus avoiding punishment for the first three months of his exile.

Also, being a smart man, Hans never lost track of the days. This made them stretch out and seem long, but this did help him predict when he would be brought home for his seven-day 'birthright' visit. The night before, Hans and Noma sat around one of the fire pits, finishing up the usual supper fare of sausage, cheese, and bread.

"No, I'm not joking," Hans insisted. "Tomorrow is the day I get taken home for one week."

Noma shook her head."If that is true, then I guess you really are a Duke."

"A Prince," Hans corrected. "But it isn't as if it matters any more."

Noma shrugged. "I still think you're a little batty," she admitted. "But perhaps it works for you. You have managed to avoid the worst of this place so far. Even you won't be able to avoid what is to come, however."

"What do you mean?" Hans asked.

Noma bit her lip. "Winter. It's when we lose the most prisoners to disease, food becomes scarcer. Work hours are shortened, but the work itself is worse, and more executions take place in winter because people grow more desperate. Even the hold becomes preferable to barrack life that time of year."

Hans shook his head. "I have plans for when I go home," he confided. "To try and make things better for us all, but don't tell a soul, not even your sister."

Noma nodded. "If you manage to make things better, Prince Hans, I will be the first to grovel at your feet."

* * *

As he was led to the _Asgaard_ the following morning after roll call, Hans felt a twinge of satisfaction seeing Noma's jaw drop in disbelief. When he returned to her, she would know he was a Prince of the Southern Isles and Westergaard by blood.

Although he had been put in the brig again, and was only given water and hardtack to eat, the trip was swift and uneventful, and on the third morning at sea, Hans awoke to the pleasant sounds of sailors announcing their arrival at Central Isle.

Hans didn't even mind being chained this time as he was led directly to the palace in the pre-dawn light. A few early-rising peasants and merchants were able to glimpse him as he walked by with his guards, and they turned to one another and muttered with what was probably disapproval. He felt his cheeks blush...and he didn't realize his blood was capable of rushing to his face so quickly anymore.

The palace was the most welcome sight in the entire world, both from outside and within. The familiar halls, with their familiar sights, familiar smells, and familiar atmospheres of tranquility and nobility, made Hans want to fall to his feet and kiss the marble floors.

 _I'm home,_ he thought. _But I can't let them see me as anything lower than what I was before. I'm still a Prince, and I have a mission, after all._

He thought of Noma, Ingrid, and Sigurd, as well as the children and elderly in the camp there for transgressions and indiscretions they didn't commit. They were brainwashed into thinking their horrible circumstances were the way things had to be! Even if he couldn't directly approach his father, Hans knew he at least had to arrange for a plea to be send to him.

Hans was not taken to his old room in the Princes' wing. Instead, he was led to the servants' section, which was a whole floor underground. Not much natural light got through. _Good, I've had more than enough sun these past few months…_

"The King commands your times home will be spent here unless he otherwise orders a change in your accommodations," one of his escorts informed him as a small wooden door was unlocked. "You are forbidden from entering the Royal Family's private apartments, but you may go elsewhere within the walls of the grounds at your discretion. However, leaving the palace grounds will result in your premature departure. Is this understood?"

"Yes," Hans said, raising his voice to a steady, regal-sounding note.

"You are assigned a curfew of nine o'clock every night," the guard continued. "Failure to comply to this curfew will result in your premature departure. Is this understood?"

"Yes."

"You will not interact with any of the members of the Royal Family unless you are sent for or approached at their discretion. Failure to comply to this will result in your premature departure. Is this un-"

"YES."

"...very well. You will take meals here at nine in the morning, one in the afternoon, and seven in the evening."

With that, the guards left, leaving the door to the room open for Hans. He had the feeling that even though he would be free to come and go as he pleased, his father would have ordered double the typical number of guards to walk the palace walls and keep watch near the entrance to the servants' floor.

The room itself was spartan, but more comfortable than his previous cell on Central Isle, and infinitely more luxurious than C-barrack. The floor had carpeting. The walls were freshly painted. There was a sink and a chair opposite the bed...even a lamp and nightstand! Hans had the notion to try and get to the palace archives...perhaps tomorrow. Maybe there was something in the old history books about the law of _Guilt by Birth_ that he could use against his father's unjust approach to criminals. Lars would let him borrow anything he wanted...at least when he was younger.

Admittedly, though, Hans felt as if that quest could wait until after a rest. His body had already grown hard through the constant vigorous work, but it still was easily exhausted. After three days at sea (which saw no physical activity but sitting and pacing about the brig), his muscles were numb. Gingerly lowering himself onto the bed, his back reacted almost instantly to the foreign sensation of sinking into springs and sheets by contracting, as if he was expecting to fall right through a hole in the mattress instead.

Before he knew it, Hans was dead to the world, his consciousness floating off into a forbidden place it hadn't been for months. For the first time in forever, Hans was allowed to dream.

* * *

The nap lasted for the better part of the day, and it took Hans an additional fifteen minutes to fully rise and re-adjust to reality. But the moment he was able to lift the cloud of grogginess from his eyes for good, Hans took off for the royal archives.

It took him a few moments to navigate out of the servants' quarters, but once he was on the ground floor, he knew where to go. However, something caught the corner of his eye, and startled, he stopped to observe it.

It was his reflection, staring back at him through a gilded mirror on the wall near a winding staircase. Indeed, with every step Hans took toward the wall, the spectre on the other side of the mirror performed the same motion in perfect unison.

However, this reflection was not the image of a Prince of the Blood.

The man who stood before Hans had a pallid, sunken face. Large purple circles spread out from underneath his bloodshot eyes. However, these were hardly noticeable underneath the limp sweep of dull red hair beginning to overtake his brows. The man in front of Hans could not grow a full beard, but his old muttonchops were unruly and wild, which, combined with the sharp, shallow angles of his jaw, gave him a beast-like face. The muscles underneath his clean, simple clothes were lean, but solid. Yet, in spite of these new muscles, the overall body was lanky and pathetic. At least before, when he was still a Prince, Hans had a toned figure. Now, where there wasn't some bulging new lump (his arms especially were forming this way), there was simply skin and bone. It was as if his body was a walking contradiction.

Hans shuddered, transfixed by the ghastly figure staring pathetically back at him. This was him after three months in _Innløsning_. How would he look in a year? Or five? Or at the end of his ten-year-minimum sentence? Would he still be alive?

He broke into a brisk walk to get away from the frightening image. He couldn't move fast enough.

Fortunately, the Royal Archive was only a few turns and steps away. It was located at the end of a glass tunnel that branched out from the main castle and ran through the western courtyard. Lars had enjoyed the myth that it was built this way to keep true knowledge separate from the corrupt government. Hans never bought it, believing that it was built that way because one of his spoiled ancestors couldn't bear to have a few of their fifteen spare bedrooms torn down.

The library itself was two stories high, with a single narrow stairway spiraling between the floors. Books and shelves lined every inch of each wall, aside from the far wall of the second floor, which hosted a fireplace and a two large benches and a desk, where Lars kept office. The lower floor held the common tomes that anyone could buy if they searched a bookshop, mainly novels and standard historical biographies relevant to the Isles. The second floor was where every official document, contract, birth and death certificate, marriage license, diary, and law book of the royal lineage was stored in immaculately-kept glass cases and shelves that could only be accessed through a locked cabinet. The ceiling was high, with two glass domes set in it to allow natural sunlight to pour in during the summer. During the dark winters, the room was lit by candle and chandelier.

When Hans entered the room, he could immediately see Lars over by a bookcase labeled 'romance,' re-shelving four large books in his arms, searching for each one's rightful place among the others.

"Is Helga still reading those?" he called out. Lars, startled, dropped two of the books. "You still can't do the job on your own? Is that why you still only have one child?"

Lars bent over to pick up the books, a smirk lining his face. "It will be two as of December, and I thank you not to startle me...I'm getting old."

Ignoring that last silly remark (for Lars was hardly an old man at forty years), Hans felt a warm smile crawl across his face as he walked over, bending down and retrieving a book with the title "The Virgin and the Pirate" obnoxiously branded across the front. He chuckled.

"She doesn't make you act them out too, does she? I assume you play the Virgin..."

Flustered, Lars snatched the book out of Hans' hands and moved quickly to stash them away.

"Our sexual stylings are none of your business, baby brother."

Lars, out of all of the Westergaard sons, was the fairest. His hair was the lightest shade of red, almost blonde in some spots, and he kept it much longer than most of his brothers, choosing to tie the strawberry curls behind his neck with a thin black ribbon. He also was the only Westergaard to require spectacles, which were half-moon-shaped frames that rested precisely on the bridge of his rather long nose. While not the most handsome prince, nor the most graceful or intimidating, Lars enjoyed the highest acceptance and praise from the commoners of the Central Isle for his typically humble nature and generous love of education. But Hans knew of Lars' mischievous side. Fortunately, unlike his other brothers, Hans only knew the good end of that mischievous streak.

"Well, may I at least congratulate you on the impending arrival of another baby," Hans said. His mind quickly flashed to Rosagunde, and his heart sank for a moment. "I assume you wish for a boy?"

Lars shook his head. "Helga wanted two girls, and Lucia wants a sister as well. I will be happy with whatever we are blessed with."

Lars completed his task and turned to get a good look at Hans for the first time. The warm contentedness of Lars' face melted almost immediately. He said nothing out of courtesy, but Hans could tell that his diminished appearance startled his brother almost as much as it had frightened himself.

"Hans," Lars said, his voice dropping. "You do know Father decreed that none of us should interact with you?" Lars hinted.

"Since when have you allowed his prejudice against me to affect your judgement? Besides...here in the library, you are the King, not he."

"I suppose," Lars sighed, a small hint of smile curling at the corner of his lip. "It is good to see you. Helga and I pray for you every night."

Hans shook his head. "Leave that to Helmuth. Anyways, you should know that I have no use for prayer. Speaking of...is he in the palace today?"

"No," he answered. "He won't be here until the end of the month. It's the Month of the Martyrs."

Hans rolled his eyes. The Month of the Martyrs was the month that the pious of the Southern Isles observed in copious amounts of isolation, silence, and fasting. Helmuth would be locked up in his little friar's cell at the monastery, meditating while staring into the flame of a candle. As such, there would be no meeting with him this time.

"May I ask what it is you are here for?" Lars asked. "You don't read very often, so to be here on the very evening after your arrival-"

"-I need to find information about a law," Hans interrupted. Lars raised an eyebrow in curiosity.

"You don't need a book for that. I could tell you anything you wanted to know."

As third in the succession until Caleb produced children, the King had seen fit to enroll Lars in the same lessons that Caleb received as the Heir Apparent, and that Erik received (as the "Spare Apparent," as Lars called him). As such, he was drilled on every law that the Isles had ever known.

"I need to know about the validity, as well as any other details you may have...about the law called _Skyldfølelse etter Fødselen._ "

Lars paused a moment, looking oddly at Hans. "A strange request," he murmured. Nevertheless, Lars thought a moment, his eyes rolling up, as if he were looking through an encyclopedia embedded within his skull. His lip trembled slightly as he whispered to himself.

" _Skyldfølelse etter Fødselen..._ Guilt By Birth...it was signed into law nearly one-hundred and fifty years ago, I believe...so that's under...our...great-great grandfather...or was it great-great-great…?"

"I need to know more about what it says and if it's valid-"

"-all laws of the Southern Isles are valid upon declaration by the King until otherwise refuted by a future King," Lars replied. "And no one has ever challenged _Skyldfølelse etter Fødselen."_

"Why not?" Hans asked.

"...well, why do you think?" Lars replied. When Hans didn't answer after several seconds, Lars swallowed, his shoulders dropping, his face reverting to an entirely solemn state.

" _Skyldfølelse etter Fødselen_ is virtually unchallengeable. Those who even try condemn their entire family for three generations. No man, no matter how desperate, would compromise the freedom of his family."

Hans felt his spine go cold. "So...you're saying…?"

Lars nodded in sad affirmation. "Yes. _Skyldfølelse etter Fødselen_ is Father's insurance. It's how he and our grandfather before him made certain they would never be dethroned. It's the thread that keeps the sword from falling on him."


	9. What Must Be Done

The entire week flew by in seconds. Hans spent the entirety of his waking hours in the archives, interrogating Lars for advice and pouring over tomes that might have given away some loophole or clue as to how  _ Skyldfølelse etter Fødselen  _ could be dismantled. Such a repeal would set Noma and her sister free, as well as every child in  _ Innløsning _ , and give them the chance to live and thrive. Hans was so determined in his research that Lars felt compelled to bring his meals to him as he worked. The boy was already too lean for his natural figure, there was certainly no excuse to pass over a nourishing supper when it was readily available.

In truth, Lars sometimes felt that he was the closest thing Hans had ever had to a father figure that was worthy of trust. He’d been nearly a man when Hans was born, and the age difference gave Lars the opportunity to act as something more than a friend, like Helmuth. As such, he’d gotten to know Hans in a different way, a way he was sure no one else knew him. Helmuth knew many of Hans’ character flaws, but Lars was able to see those flaws in a different way. He looked at the mistakes Hans made as the rash decisions of an immature man who was left to his own devices...and taught that it was more important to always protect himself first. When one is reared to be defensive, it was only natural that they would turn out to be on the selfish side as an adult. 

Even Lars had to admit that Hans had changed, for he had never seen his baby brother so caught up in a cause that was not directly his own. It gave him a purpose, and it rather became the boy to take up a purpose. Lars noticed that in spite of his relatively small new shape, Hans took up more space when he walked. He held his chin higher, not his nose. His eyes betrayed more emotion when he spoke. Lars wished that Hans could have developed these new quirks under better circumstances...he liked this side of his baby brother. 

The last night of Hans’ week at home, Lars treated him to a plate of pastries and a pot of coffee. The men sat by the fireplace nibbling away at apple strudel and talking, though Hans was still distracted by the large book in his lap, for even now he was desperate for an answer. 

“Hans, I’ve been trying to ask you something all week,” Lars hinted. Hans looked up from his book. 

“Yes?” 

“Why do you bother with all of this when you know it will never amount to any change?” 

Hans paused a moment in thought. He took a bite of strudel, and when a few crumbs of pastry lingered on the corner of his lip, he brushed them away with the cloth napkin tucked into his collar. 

“How do you mean, it will never amount to change?” he asked. Lars sighed. 

“Father is giving Caleb more power by the day,” he answered softly. “I’m not sure what he means by this, but if logic serves me, it means Father doesn't expect to be too long for this world.” 

Hans reacted with a raised eyebrow and nothing more. 

“And you and I both know,” Lars continued, “Caleb wouldn’t change a punctuation mark on the  _ Stor Grunnlov _ . He wouldn’t care a whit about the plight of your child prisoners. It’s utterly impossible.” 

This was true. Hans’ shoulders sank a little at this. 

“That may be so,” he replied. “But maybe we should let the people have their say. Maybe it isn’t so impossible to them?” 

Lars bit his lip and paused to contain himself. “Are you talking of treason? Rebellion?”

_ Maybe.  _

“No,” he said out loud, concealing his true thought. “But Lars, you are a father yourself, and you are about to be a father again. If you could only see that these children...these adults who have known no other life...they...they aren't really...alive. They function like cogs in a watch. They cannot see their individual purpose, or that they are worth anything. They only see how much food they can earn, or if they can barter a ration for a bandage to cover a wound.” 

“Hans, you are so young and impetuous. Sometimes we can’t be the hero. Maybe if you’d realized that a long time ago--”

“--it’s not about being a hero. It’s about being right. This is about what has to be done!” protested Hans, suddenly rising from his seat and letting the book on his lap drop to the floor. He angrily grabbed the napkin at his throat and yanked it out. Tossing it aside, he spun around and walked towards the stacks. 

Lars followed him, and found him staring out of a narrow window, which overlooked the outer wall of the palace grounds, and out over into the sea. His shoulders were trembling. Gingerly, Lars reached out a hand to comfort his brother, but when Hans felt the touch, he jerked his shoulder  away. 

“You don’t see anything from within these walls,” he said. “What the peasants do. What the slaves do. They don’t feel like people from here. But Noma--”

“--Noma?” Lars asked. “Who is that?” 

Hans realized he hadn’t mentioned Noma by name, nor Ingrid or Sigurd. 

“She was the first person to help me in  _ Innløsning. _ I was hurt. She gave up her meal to help me, and I think...I think she sold her body to procure a mug for me. She came to  _ Innløsning  _ as a baby, and her sister was born there. They both will die there. Her sister’s innocence was raped away from her before her thirteenth birthday. What...what could she be if she could only come here?” Hans turned around and looked at Lars. “It’s not right. If our family were fair rulers, we wouldn’t need  _ Skyldfølelse etter Fødselen  _ to keep the peasants in line.” 

A knock at the door interrupted the conversation. “Prince Lars?” called a female voice. 

Lars’ face lit up. “In the midst of this depressing conversation, my surprise for you has arrived, brother! Wait here.” Lars spun on his heels and sped away. 

Hans groaned. How could anyone of the royal class understand the injustice of  _ Skyldfølelse etter Fødselen _ ? Or why Hans was so desperate for help?

Yet all of Hans’ present dark thoughts melted away when Lars returned, holding a squirming bundle in a lace blanket in his arms. 

“Rosie?” he asked, his voice raising. Lars nodded with a smile and held the bundle out. Hans immediately took the baby into his arms. 

“I knew Father wouldn’t let you near her. But it wasn’t right to have you home and to not see your sister.” 

As before, Hans’ heart flooded with brotherly love. Rosagunde was growing too quickly. Her hair was black as the midnight sky, and her eyes as blue as perfect sapphires. Her cheeks were chubby and red, and she had an endearing double chin. She was dressed in a soft pink baby gown and a white bib trimmed with lace. She took one look at Hans, and her lips curled upward as she stilled in his arms. 

“She’s beautiful,” Hans sighed. Lars nodded. 

“She’s never smiled before, from what I’ve seen,” he replied. “Even though it’s been a whole season, it is plain to see that she remembers you.”

* * *

 

Alas, Heaven cannot last forever while it is on Earth. 

Hans only had a few minutes with his ‘Rosie.” Lars had bribed one of her nurses to steal her away while her parents were preoccupied. Once she was returned to her cradle, Hans found he couldn’t concentrate on his research anymore, even though it would be his last night to do so for three months. Instead, he’d gone back to his room and tried every trick he could think of to induce sleep, but nothing really worked. 

He’d have to return to  _ Innløsning _ in the morning. For the winter. Noma had mentioned winter being easier on the physical labor, yet still harder to survive. What was in store for him before his next visit? Would he be able to find a solution to  _ Skyldfølelse etter Fødselen _ ? Without committing treason or propelling him into further trouble? 

Hans lay in a fully-awakened state well into the night. Nothing helped lull him to sleep. 

Sometime in the midnight hour, a rustling and set of giggles close to his door motivated Hans to investigate. The servants were rarely in this part of the palace after the royals were abed. They were either asleep, home with their families, or out gambling at the taverns. Hans let the odd shadow pass over the door before he slipped out and followed. 

It was likely nothing to be concerned about. This was more on an excuse to get Hans on his feet to treat his restlessness. 

Hans stayed safely behind a corner of the dim corridor as two figures stumbled along their way. He could barely make out that it was a male and female servant, flirting lewdly with one another, likely drunk. Hans could smell beer from the considerable length away. 

The male servant, a strikingly handsome man with long, oily hair, pinned the buxom, red-haired female servant against the stone wall, and began grinding his hips against her skirts. The woman responded by widening her stance and wrapping her left leg around his right. The man didn’t ask permission before greedily running a hand under her blouse and up to her heaving breast. The woman squealed. 

Hans bit his lip and looked away. This was entirely too rude for him to be staring at, yet his virgin’s curiosity was piqued. He could even feel himself beginning to awaken and harden in his own private area. In spite of himself, he turned around again after a moment. 

Now, the servant man had moved his hand from under the woman’s shirt to up  under her skirts, where he was certainly feeling her sex. The woman writhed and moaned in rhythm, her hips bucking against his touch…

“...Luc, we should go to the kitchen. Let’s finish there,” the woman suggested, suddenly breaking the mood.

The man paused a moment and removed his hand, rubbing it on the side of his pants as if some liquid substance had gotten on it. “Yes, Cecilia,” he agreed, releasing his lover from the wall and moving further down the corridor with her. 

Out of decency, Hans chose not to follow them any more. He was already deeply ashamed for allowing himself to watch their folly. Now, his own member was hard as a rock. It hadn’t been so in a grossly long time, not since he would spy on servant girls having sex with the stable boys as an adolescent, getting himself off at the sight. But he was a man now, with much bigger concerns on his mind to focus on. He should have known better. 

But something caught Hans’ eye after the pair of lovers were on their way. A piece of paper on the floor, perhaps fallen out of the woman’s pockets. A pamphlet. Hans chose to retrieve it, again, out of pure curiousity. 

The first page was blank. Nothing written on it. 

Hans turned to the second page. 

“The Inevitable Enlightenment of the Workers, or How to Wage War with a Despot.”

Hans knitted his brow and smiled. A treasonous pamphlet! Were the servants within the palace walls as dissatisfied with the status quo as the prisoners of  _ Innløsning _ ?

Hans spent the rest of the night on his pallet reading about the common man’s displeasure with his father’s rule, and why the Outer Isles should band together in order to overthrow the Central Isle and establish a constitutional government. Perhaps, if it came to civil war, Hans could help rally the Outer Isles…

...but civil war was an extreme that Hans did not want to see come to fruition. What price would his family have to pay? Would Lars, Helmuth, and Rosie all have to put their head on the executioner’s block if the Westergaards were deposed?  Would Hans have to do the same? 

Or would he have to wield the axe over his brothers’ necks for the sake of his own survival?

* * *

 

The three days’ journey back to  _ Innløsning  _  felt like years. Hans’ body had only stopped aching, and now his muscles contracted in anticipation of being forced back to work and borderline starvation. 

But he had that pamphlet! Hans knew exactly what to do with it. 

He would give it to Noma, who could, in turn, give it to Sigurd and Ingrid, who could pass it amongst the prisoners until the spark of rebellion could be fanned into a flame somehow. Perhaps by springtime, something could begin to happen. Maybe, in a year, Noma and Ingrid would be free women. Hans would invite them to live in the palace, perhaps as chambermaids. They were not of sufficient rank to be waiting women, but as his companions, Hans could easily secure positions as high ranking servants for them both...especially Noma, to whom he owed so much. 

Hans hid the literature in the waistband of his trousers just before his disembarked the  _ Asgaard.  _ The air in  _ Innløsning  _ was notably cooler than when he’d left. He couldn’t help but smile for just a moment in spite of his return to captivity...perhaps he was excited to see Noma again…

...Hans didn’t expect three burly guards to force him onto his knees the second he touched soil. Commander Leif towered over him as he fell. One of the guards tied his hands behind his back with rough rope. Another threw a noose around his neck and tightened the knot, yanking the rope so that Hans’ face was forced to the ground. 

“So, you think you can give the others hope, do you? Inciting rebellion in the ranks, eh?” Leif barked. 

How could he possibly have known about the pamphlet?!

“I don't know what you’re--” 

“Telling that girl that you’d pull some strings and free everyone while you were away, eh?” Leif continued. “If you weren’t of royal blood, you would be hanged next to her in front of the entire island for that.” 

Hanged? Noma? Over something he’d said? 

“Your little bitch told people who you were when you left, and that you were going home to negotiate her release, as well as that of every child in  _ Innløsning.  _ But she was properly punished after your departure...and now it is your turn,” Leif announced. “To the whipping post with him...and rally the prisoners. Thirty lashes or until he dies...whichever comes first.”

* * *

 

Hans was shoved into the isolation cell until the prisoners could be assembled. He was stripped by the guards to add humiliation to torture. When Lieutenant Lambi found the pamphlet inside his trousers, he snickered. 

“As if we wouldn’t have found this,” he said before throwing it over his shoulder. “It’s hardly worth the kindling it will be in the Commander’s fireplace tonight.”

Forty minutes went by, and Hans, still naked, was re-bound at the wrists and dragged out to the scaffold. He couldn’t bear to look at the crowd there to witness his torture or death. He could barely see at all, between the sweat stinging his eyes and the fear clouding his vision. 

Had Noma truly been hanged? Or tortured? All on a count of his loose lips? Was she alive? Was she in the crowd, about to watch him pay for his carelessness? 

Hans was shoved up the steps and bound to the whipping block. He lied across the block with his bare back in the air, his arms stretched out and tied on opposite sides. His knees were still on the ground , but they were going numb fast. Someone then tied a blindfold around his face, so that he suddenly could not see. 

His heart was racing, goosebumps forming all over his skin. Commander Leif was reciting his crime and sentence (‘inciting possible rebellion’). Thirty lashes or until death...whichever came first. 

Hans prayed in his head that he was strong enough to withstand thirty lashes. He could feel himself trembling, but he wanted to grasp a little bit of dignity, especially if this was how he died. He refused to cry. 

After the sentence was read, it felt like an eternity for Hans, naked and bound, waiting for the first pain to split across his back like nothing he’d ever felt before. 

How many second went by? Two? Ten? A thousand? Maybe the guards were discussing leniency? After all, royal blood was royal blood, and spilling such blood was--

\--then it came. 

Striking like a thousand slashes of a scimitar all at once, a bolt of pain fell across Hans’ back, right between his shoulder blades. Skin broke. The pain in the first second after the blow increased rather than decreased. Hans cried out not in anguish but in surprise more than anything. 

One. 

A second or two went by, but Hans did not have enough time to process the injury before the next blow came, in roughly the same spot as the first. The pain exponentially increased. Hans felt the sensation of something leaking from his skin. 

Two. 

Five seconds went by. Another strike, this time lower on the back. The pain was as fresh as the first and second. 

Three. 

The next strike was back over the upper back, and already Hans felt ready to collapse. The sting of the injury was worsened by the open air being exposed to it. Each lash seemed to do infinitely more damage than the last. 

Four...Five...Six…

Hans felt his life force draining from his body through the open wounds on his back. He felt feverish, he felt tremours shake his bones...he wasn’t going to survive this. There was nothing that could save him…

Nineteen...Twenty...Twenty One…

“Girl, get back in line!” 

“What’s she doing?”

 

“Fucking bitch! Restrain her!” 

 

Hans passed out to the echoes of guards’ voices and the intense buzzing of hell in his ears. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this gets some more feedback and hits, and thank you to those who did read my story!


	10. The Throes of Winter

Hans knew he would awaken in Hell. It was where he belonged. For nearly killing Queen Elsa and Princess Anna, but also for not being able to save Noma, who had been hanged before he’d even returned from his weeklong stay on Central Isle for spreading the optimistic idea that he’d be able to bring a diplomatic end to the horrible law that imprisoned her. Her blood was on his hands as well, and he knew it. 

But when his eyelids fluttered opened, Noma’s face was the first he saw, and he was suddenly confused. If one person did not deserve to rot in Hell, it was Noma. Why was she here? Why weren’t the glowing hellfires reflected off her cheeks? 

Suddenly, a searing pain split Hans’ back apart. He groaned in agony, unable to tolerate the burning sensation of the open scars lining his skin. Wherever he was, Hans was now aware that he was on his stomach, his back exposed. 

“Shh,” Noma whispered. “It’s going to be all right. You had a fever, but you might have enough strength in you yet to pull through...it broke in the night.” 

“Urg?” was all Hans could muster in reply. Was he still on Earth? 

“You wouldn’t be here had I not convinced the guards to stop your whipping,” Noma added. “You passed out after twenty-one hits.”

“You…?” 

Noma let out a soft “shh” and gently put her finger to Hans’ lips.  “Don’t talk now. I owed you at least that. They made me take the rest of your whips, but I’ve had worse than nine lashes before.” 

* * *

Over time, Hans’ wounds turned into bright red scars, then faded into dull marks. Some even went away completely. But three very distinct lines in between his shoulder blades would stay on his skin forever.

Noma explained everything to Hans, all while apologizing repeatedly for being a chatterbox and taking the blame for their shared torture. In the end, he genuinely didn’t care whether or not Noma was the reason for his punishment. She hadn’t died for him, and that was all that mattered. Well, that and his own survival, which became more and more essential as the wheel of the seasons turned into winter’s quarter…

...and winter came in with an unholy fury that year. 

A typical winter in the Southern Isles did not include snow, unless a rogue weather pattern caused such a rare event. Instead, the entire season was marked by non-stop torrential rain in temperatures dropping to 3-4 degrees Celsius. Winds gusted to cyclonic speeds at times, causing debris to fly about as common as seabirds. The sun never shone, the cold, moist air seeped into every nook and cranny of a house, and the conditions were perfect for deadly diseases like pneumonia, influenza, and pleurisy to spread like wildfire...especially in cramped, overpopulated spaced like the barracks of  _ Innløsning. _

Outdoor labor was impossible, but the guards kept the prisoners busy with horrendous indoor work that made things even harder to bear. Each barrack was turned into a sweat shop, where everyone sat hour after hour under close watch, sewing, washing, and dyeing soldiers’ uniforms. With over two hundred people in each barrack, many ill with fever or vulnerable, the air became hot, still, and damp. The smell was unbearable, the room heavy with the mixed odors of piss, vomit, and feverish sweat. The fires usually started in the evenings outside for the small benefit of the workers could not be lit. Sitting still for twelve hours a day in such conditions ate away at the muscles of the strongest men. No one could risk slacking off, for the guards placed cruelly high quotas on each barrack, and failure to meet these standards would result in the withholding of rations until the work was done threefold. 

Hans understood quickly why Noma had warned him about winter being worse than summer in spite of the laborious tasks. At least the air was fresh out of doors in the mud pits and rock quarry. He was sore from hard work, but it was preferable to the kind of pain he felt in his back and legs after standing stationary, hunched over a dyeing basin of steaming, murky water. 

The slight morale that some of the people around Hans had during the autumn had melted away in C-Barrack. By Yuletide, only a month into the desolate season, no one sang to pass the time, or even spoke. Only mutterings, barely audible above the coughs, wheezes, and shivers of the others, could be discerned. Noma and Ingrid would work besides Hans every day, but even they remained silent for the most part, only breaking the quiet spells during their midday break. 

Needless to say, there was no Christmas celebration. The only indicator that there was a holiday at all was a single, mournful chorus of a vague solstice carol that Noma hummed one day. Ingrid harmonized with her. Hans couldn’t help but notice that both girls were surprisingly good at keeping pitch. 

Soon after that, the deaths began. 

“If it bothers you, I will tell you to go to the corner until we can take a body outside,” Noma offered kindly to Hans. Hans shrugged and cleared his throat, hot and dry from the toxic air. 

“I have seen men die before,” Hand replied. “I have seen strange things you wouldn’t believe.” 

Noma looked solemnly at Hans and shook her head sadly. 

“You haven’t seen this kind of death before,” she warned. 

Sure enough, a day or two later, someone from the far end of the row cried out for help. The guards didn’t move, but Noma, Ingrid, and Hans quickly got up from their tasks and ran to the source of the shouts. A little boy, about eight years old, but with the body of a five year-old, was lying on a pallet, writhing in agony, covered in purple pustules that were oozing opus and blood. A withered old woman was holding his hand and shaking. 

“He’s delusional...and he’s seizing!” the old woman explained. Ingrid covered her mouth, but Noma bit her lip and knelt by the pallet, laying her palm over the boy’s head. 

“He’s burning up,” she sighed. She looked up at the old woman and shook her head. 

“Hold on,” Hans interjected. “Can’t we find some ice...or at least some cold water? To try and bring it down?”

“It isn’t just a fever,” Ingrid said softly, backing away from the child. “It’s….it’s…”

“Get away!” Noma shouted. “Ingrid, you and Hans need to get away from here! This is pox!”: 

Ingrid obeyed quickly, but Hans didn;t move. After a moment, Noma barked her command again. 

“You will catch it and die if you don’t leave now!” 

“I was inoculated as a child against pox,” Hans replied quickly. It was true, though inoculation was only an experimental resort, the royal family had always had the privilege to access breakthrough medicines before anyone else. 

“What’s inoculated?” Noma asked. 

“It means I’m safe to be here,” answered Hans, kneeling besides Noma and the boy. Are you safe?”

Noma nodded. “I survived pox because we had an outbreak a few springs ago. As an adult, I had a better chance at making it. This boy, however...he’s too far gone. I’m sorry, Mag.” 

The old woman began crying softly. “May I stay with him?” 

Noma nodded, and instructed Hans to go warn the others in the barrack that pox was present, and to take heed.

That night, Hans and Noma watched the boy die, writhing in terrible pain and delirium.  Mag, the boy’s grandmother, came down with the pox a week after, and followed her grandson quickly. 

Noma had been correct. Hans had never seen death of this nature. Usually, death at the sword was bloody, but still somehow quick and clean compared to the festering diseases that slowly suffocated their victims here. The young and the old feel prey first, and by the time the outbreak fell away, fourteen children and eight elders had succumbed. Hans held a two-year-old orphan girl as the pox took her. She had dark hair and pallid skin, like his precious Rosie. No one even knew the babe’s true name. She’d just fallen in with another family, who named her  _ Eira _ . Merciful.

* * *

Neither Hans nor Noma grew ill that winter beyond a cough, but the effects of the hard weather and insufferable conditions still took a dangerous toll out of them both. The muscles Hans had built outdoors earlier in the year were consumed by his own body in an attempt to stay alive, and soon he was little more than bone. Even his sideburns stopped growing (although Hans made use of the barrack’s shared hair razor on those typically anyway) , though the hair on his head was quite long now, nearly at the shoulder. Meanwhile, Noma’s face grew angular, and her skin yellowed. Hans overheard her telling Ingrid once that her monthly bleeding had “subsided again.”

“It always returns when we’re outside and given more food,” she insisted. This did little to reassure Hans. 

Soon, Hans could count the ribs poking through his skin. He stopped feeling hungry. His eyesight began to worsen in the poor lighting of the room. His skin grew blotched and irritated from the hard chemicals used in the dyeing basin. Lice and fleas crawled over him, conquering every surface.

In time, Hans had forgotten that he was overdue for a home visit. When he was summoned to the  _ Asgaard  _ in February, he was genuinely surprised by it. 

He didn’t bother to bid goodbye to Noma, nor did he bother to plot and plead for release or justice upon arriving home. Instead, he took to his modest bed in his modest accommodations, and slept the entire week, only rising for meals and bathing, barely managing to scrape the lice from his scalp. 

* * *

Helmuth knew Hans had been home for nearly his full week, and yet was concerned by his lack of appearances. He knew he had to be the one to summon his brother to him, and he’d done so three times. Three times, and not once did Hans answer him. So, on the last night of Hans’ weeklong visit, Helmuth left his cell and went after him.

What he saw when he entered Hans’ room was appalling and heart-breaking. In fact, Helmuth staggered back and swallowed the acid bile building in his throat. 

Hans lied unconscious (though breathing regularly) in his bed, the blanket wrapped around his hips, exposing his naked chest. He was a skeletal figure spreads out on the mattress, white as a mountain top and covered in pimples, rashes, and scars. Every rib could be counted in his chest, and his neck looked so skinny that a stiff wind could cause Hans’ head to break off. His body hair was no longer growing. His arms were almost as thin as the bedposts. Each breath was a labored wheeze.

Helmuth immediately ran to the archives where, thankfully, Lars was alone at his desk. 

“Lars, Hans is in trouble.”

Lars slowly turned around to meet his little brother’s worried gaze. Lars had dark circles under his own eyes, as his newborn daughter was a colic child who kept him up every night. 

“Hans? He’s home?” Lars asked. “When did he arrive?”

Helmuth sighed. “He is due to return tomorrow to  _ Innløsning  _ tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Why didn’t he visit?” The alarm in Lars voice grew exponentially.

“I’ll show you, my brother.”

Helmuth led Lars through the palace to Hans’ room, and when the men arrived, Lars was met with the same horrific sight that had caused Helmuth such worry. 

“What do they do in that place?” Lars questioned. “If a young man in his physical prime is reduced to this--”

“-- _ Gud _ be with those people.” Helmuth sank to his knees and said a lengthy prayer for his brother and his prison mates.

As he did so, Lars paced the hallway in front of the room. The last time Hans had been home, he had been desperate for an answer to what was keeping him and those people in  _ Innløsning. _ Before, Lars thought Hans was trying to re-direct his karma or to prove himself to his brothers in hopes that one of them would insist on a lighter sentence for him. Now, Lars saw the truth. Hans was in danger of his life, as were the children under  _ Skyldfølelse etter Fødselen _ . Perhaps the law did have a more sinister purpose...not to keep an eye out for potential trouble in future generations...but to eliminate them?

Lars saw the light at last. He needed to help save his brother and his people. And he knew that time was of the essence to act…

...but how to approach such treachery? To go under the nose of his own family for a cause that could result in revolution or mass hysteria? Or even the toppling of the monarchy? This wasn’t something that was just done one day on a whim. In order to begin something so risky, so large, it would take years of planning, stockpiling supplies, and quietly rallying the other islands in the Southern Isles, some of which took days to travel to in it of themselves. Time was not on the side of such a plot. 

But how long did they have? Hans was dying. Innocent children born to criminal parents were dying. If this occurred in a foreign land, it would be considered a condemnable war crime. Why was the King allowing this to continue in his own bounds? 

Hans was right. This was something that had to be done. 

“Helmuth,” Lars said softly. “May we leave Hans to his rest and discuss something in your cell? I have something on my mind that we need to discuss.” 

* * *

Almost a month after Hans’ return to  _ Innløsning, _ the weather began to turn again. The rains fizzled out and became mist, then the mist gave way to clear, chilly air as the sun began to break through the constant cloud cover. The temperature very slowly began to rise as the days became longer.

The barrack was also noticeably less populated. Fifty-nine people total died that season from disease, fatigue, and starvation. 

“It will be full again by autumn, rest assured,” Sigurd told Hans. 

The first spring time duty for C-Barrack was to drain the west side of the island of flood waters and mud (saving the mud, of course) by digging a trench that ran the water to the sea. Hans felt as if his lungs had shrunk to half their normal size during the winter, and that his bones had turned to glass. Without his muscles from before, the work what back-breakingly difficult. At least the rations were increased again and the open air helped clear the head. 

Hans was most grateful for the fires being lit again at night. He never took those evening for granted again. As he regained his strength, he even began scouring the area for extra wood to keep the pits burning for a few extra minutes every day. 

Every night, Noma sat to his right in the circle. Her presence was beginning to mean more than mere support or comfort to Hans. 

“You would have lived comfortably in the Central Isle with your gift for healing,” Hans said to her one night. “Maybe not richly, but with security. You would have been able to afford good food and a family.” 

Noma shook her head. “I am not all that talented in the healing arts,” she admitted. “I learned a lot of what I know from others here who were doctors or healers before being arrested.” 

Hans smiled. Noma’s face was still gaunt from winter’s misery, but when she was flattered, she grinned from ear to ear, giving her an elfin-like face that put youth back into her looks. Such a grin became her.

“I only do what I do because being useful here means more food, more help, and less beatings if you can keep your head down,” Noma added. “It’s completely selfish, what I do. It’s for my sister, father, and myself. If I didn’t make myself invaluable to everyone else here, I might get left behind or thrown aside as a weakling.”

Hans sighed and looked into the fire a moment, lost in thought. “The way of life here is how jungle animals live. Not how people should exist.”

“It’s barbaric,” Noma suggested. :”But hey, it’s home.” 

* * *

The next morning, Hans was barely out of the barrack and lining up for work when a guard grabbed his elbow and pulled him out of ranks.

“You, boy,” he said with a rough smoker’s voice. “You have a visitor.” 

A visitor? Who could possibly have traveled out here to see him? One of his brothers? Surely not. Lars had a family he needed to be close to...and Helmuth was not a member of the Brotherhood who went to the outer isles to proselytize. None of his other brothers would care to see him. There was no way it was his father or stepmother…but that ruled out everyone who would hold any interest in seeing Hans at this random time.

At a loss for words, Hans simply followed the guard to the hill and into the Justice Building at the center of the camp. He was led down the corridor and to a small room near the end on the left, where a desk, two chairs, and a platter with coffee, toast, and cherry preserves awaited. 

To Hans’ bewilderment, standing by the barred window of the tiny office was Prince Magnus, the eleventh Westergaard brother, wearing plain clothes and holding a pamphlet discreetly in his hand. 

“How long do you need him for, Your Highness?” the guard asked. 

Magnus paused a moment. “I can’t be sure. Possibly all day, for this is a complicated royal matter. Please send lunch at noon.”

Hans was befuddled at his brother’s seemingly confident authority. Meanwhile, the guard nodded and shut the door. 

Magnus gestured to the small chair on the far side of the desk that occupied most of the space. “Sit, Hans.” 

Hans obeyed. “Magnus? I...well...I…what are you…?”

“Let’s get down to business,” Magnus interjected, tossing the pamphlet at Hans, who could tell without reaching for it that it was a pamphlet identical to the one the two lovers had dropped on his first visit home half a year prior. 

Hans’ jaw dropped. “How did you find…?”

“Let’s not discuss minute details, little brother, for all with reveal itself in due course,” Magnus again interrupted. “But first, coffee and toast are in order. After all, we can’t start a revolution on empty, shriveled stomachs, can’t we?” 


	11. Guns and Ships

If any of the Westegaard Princes seemed ill-suited to initiate a violent rebellion, it was Magnus. 

Since birth, Magnus was soft, passive, small, and predestined to stand in the background. At times, even Hans had forgotten the brother second-closest to him in age. Hans never doubted that in spite of his silence, Magnus was highly intelligent, like Lars. Magnus was not picked apart for being weak like Hans had been, for Magnus knew how to keep one step ahead of his brothers’ games. Hans suspected blackmailing, bribery, and other illicit methods of defense were at play. Also, Magnus would always follow Caleb’s lead example and work alongside the others at tormenting little Hans. Perhaps that clarified his allegiance amongst the others and kept him safe.

Whatever the reason, Magnus was always left alone to be the mousy boy he was. 

Only once in his life did the timid man ever cause a stir, and that was when Hans was fourteen. During a rare, intimate family meal, Magnus had a sudden moment of assertiveness, and stood, announcing to the entire family that he was homosexual, and that the family needed to know this so when the time came for him to choose a consort, no one would be taken by surprise when he brought a man home for the engagement party.

Hans expected his brothers to turn on Magnus like they did on him...but, to his surprise, none of them stirred. 

King Hagen, however, was furious. A man raised in a highly conservative environment, he was taught that homosexuality indicated a penchant of femininity in males, which could not be tolerated in the royal family. He declared that Magnus was an embarrassment, and that if he refused to take a female partner when his time came to marry, he would be forced to enter the Brotherhood or be exiled abroad. 

Hans expected Magnus to choose the latter of the two options, but to his surprise, Magnus found a bride before his nineteenth birthday, preceding several of his older brothers to the altar. King Hagen was satisfied at the simple-minded blonde noble he chose, a lady by the name of Kaija, but Hans noticed how after a good ten years of marriage, the pair failed to produce any children. He suspected that silly Kaija knew nothing of Magnus’ sexual inclinations, nor that Magnus’ manservant Baldyr was uncommonly handsome and always a little too close to his master’s side. 

Even so, Magnus was so passive and private that Hans had no idea what his brother’s occupation was. 

So when Magnus stood before Hans, waving a treasonous pamphlet and talking casually about starting a rebellion, he couldn’t help but lose all coherent thought for a moment, just trying to piece together what was unfolding. 

“Lars and Helmuth think the time has come, and that you are in the right place now, to start an uprising against our Father. And I believe it can happen, if we work for the right results.” 

“Which are?” Hans asked cautiously, sipping at the hot, bitter liquid in his mug.

“King Hagen’s head on a pike, the  _ Stor Grunnlov _ roasting on an open fire, and an elected Parliament taking up court in his throne room,” Magnus answered. 

“Well, maybe if you pray like Helmuth, that can come to fruition in your dreams, brother,” Hans scoffed. 

“You don’t need prayer when you have an arsenal of over 100,000 swords, guns, and cannons at your disposal,” replied Magnus, smiling. 

Hans raised an eyebrow. “So, you run Father’s arsenal?”

“Indeed I do. I take inventory, do upkeep, hire blacksmiths, and even keep the Navy’s warships in good order.” 

“Magnus, I must ask you--”

“--why me and why now?” Magnus finished, his lip twitching as he began to recall a disturbing memory. “I’m not a fighter, little brother. I never was. I never will be. Perhaps that was why Father put me in charge of the arsenals, because he knew I’d never misuse them. But he is a dirty dog, our Father. He is a power-mad monster who thrives on a false perception of order. When I threatened his perfect picture, he put me in my place. I am just one person, and I knew that I could deceive him if I played my cards right.”

“But if you don’t like to fight, why do you repress these strong feelings against the King?” Hans asked. 

“It is said, Hans, that while loud men lead battles, it is the quiet ones who win wars. I am not strong, nor am I burly or confident, but I have the quickest brain in this country, and I know when to play my hand,” Magnus explained. “I have never loved our way of life, and surely you know this.” 

“No, I didn’t,” Hans replied. “You always fell in line so perfectly. You always looked on with a smirk as our older brothers abused and beat me. You were subservient and--”

“--never subservient,” Magnus corrected him. “Merely a pacifist. I never meant to make waves.” 

“So you never took pleasure in my torment?”

Magnus shrugged. “Not particularly. But it was not my place to intervene.” 

Hans wanted to dive across the table and put his fist between his brother’s eyes. “So you watched me suffer and never did a thing?!”

Magnus frowned. “Look, I did what I had to do to survive, and sometimes choosing that road takes you down some twisted alleyways. You cannot tell me that you’ve acted only for others while here, have you?”

“...no.” 

“And, as I recall, you weren’t exactly thinking of the people of Arendelle as you tried so hard to usurp their Queen’s throne?”

Hans winced at the mentioning of Arendelle and looked down at his feet. Magnus nodded. 

“I thought so.” Magnus smirked. “You can’t play this game like it’s a noble cause, Hans. Morals will be challenged. Ideals will be shifted. Bribes will be made and bets will be called in. People will die. I could be hanged for what I am about to offer. But if this is truly what has to be done, in the end, we will each get what we need, and our people will no longer live under the reign of a tyrant. I can live in peace with the man I love, and you can finally have the purpose you always seem to be looking for.” 

“I gave up on finding my place a long time ago,” Hans admitted. 

Magnus shook his head. “Not so long ago.” 

Magnus was right. A thousand things had to change in order for any of this idea to work. Hans was not meant to save the people. He was only supposed to offer them the chance to save themselves. Overthrowing a power structure of any type was dirty work, involving lying, stealing, killing, and more. Not to mention., the entire scheme was guaranteed to be quite complicated, and was going to take so much time, there was so much room for the slightest detail to be overlooked, resulting in Magnus, Helmuth, Lars, and himself dangling by their necks from the end of a rope. 

“What would have to be done? And where do our brothers fit into this?” Hans asked. 

Magnus smiled. “Now we’re getting somewhere!”

Over the following eight hours, Hans and Magnus discussed in great detail the scheme that Lars and Helmuth had helped Magnus create. It was a tiered plan that would take the better part of a decade to fully realize. But, if done right, it would unite the Outer Isles, render the Central Isle paralyzed, rally the people to war, overthrow the King, and bring a new system of governing to the Southern Isles, dismantling the former monarchy and caste system and replacing it with an elected constitutional structure and a social system much like Arendelle, where people were innocent until they committed a crime, and anyone could make their fortune through hard work. 

Phase one would take the longest, and be the most delicate to execute. Hans would have to stay at  _ Innløsning  _ and serve out more of his sentence, but also spread the word throughout the camp that the people needed to make ready for revolution. Magnus would use his authority to increase food rations and decrease work quotas so that people could be strong when the time came, but it would take up to a year for Magnus to steal away enough weaponry and ships to bring in the dead of night to them. 

_ A year is a long time for one prisoner to let it slip to a guard for an extra crust of bread what is being discussed... _ Hans thought. 

Helmuth and Lars would prepare for Phase Two by using their charisma and passion to rally the peasants on the Artist’s Isle and Central Isle, respectively. By the time Magnus would be able to accrue enough allies and weapons to liberate  _ Innløsning,  _ The Artists’ Isle, which was less than a day’s journey from the prison, would be prepared to welcome and defend the freed inmates. Once there, the rebels could rest, train, and then set out to rally the peasants of the other islands. 

_ What if they are loyalists on the other islands? _

Then, over time, Phase Three would entail the rebels growing in number and strength, hopping from island to island until, at last, they reached Central Isle, where they would be prepared to fight against the army guarding the royal family. 

_ Do we have to execute our own brothers? _

Phase Four was instituting a new system of governing, as well as re-writing the  _ Stor Grunnlov _ and re-establishing a peacetime economy.

_ What would any of us know about starting over? _

“Magnus, if, against all odds, this plan succeeds...will we have to kill the rest of our brothers?” Hans asked hesitantly. 

“I should think,” Magnus replied, “That you would WANT to see them dead.”

When Hans didn’t reply, Magnus leaned in and explained his plan. 

“Every brother will have a chance to ally with us once things begin,” he assured. “As will their families. They will know that you will be our headship, and if they can’t rally around you, they forfeit their place in the New Southern Isles.”

“And Rosie? She’s still a baby!”

Magnus rolled his eyes. “I’m a two-faced schemer, not a child assassin, Hans. Our sister will be far from harm’s way, far from the violence, and safe as a kitten.” 

Hans nodded and sighed in relief. “If we must bring down our parents, I want to raise her myself after our success.” 

Magnus knitted his eyebrow. “You will be too busy helping us create a new government to foster her.” 

Hans shook his head. “I will let you run everything on your own if you’ll allow her to me.” 

Magnus mulled over this for a rather long moment before thrusting his palm out. “It’s a deal.” 

“I’m doing this for her, and for my friends here,” Hans avowed, taking Magnus’ hand and shaking it firmly. 

Magnus scowled. “Did you listen to a damn thing I said?!”

Hans smiled and shook his head. “I don’t care what you said. Just bring us those guns and ships, Magnus.” 

* * *

Hans had one year from the Spring Equinox to rally the entire island in secret, and encourage them to power through one last year of hard labor and rough conditions, before Magnus’ return. He had no idea how to do it, but he knew someone who could help.

“This is exciting!” Noma whispered that night around the fire. “Do you think this could happen? Really?” 

Hans shrugged and took a sip from his soup mug. “To be honest with you, I am as unsure as anyone else.” 

“Why? If you’re the leader--”

“--I’m no leader,” Hans dismissed. “If I was a gifted leader, I would have--” 

He stopped himself from finishing his thought. _ I would have succeeded in Arendelle and be their King right now.  _

Noma reached out and took Hans’ hand gently in hers. 

“You shouldn’t doubt yourself, not now. Just because you failed to forcibly take a foreign kingdom doesn’t mean you can’t lead a righteous revolution in your own.” 

“What? How did you...how could you possibly know about that?” Hans asked. 

Noma giggled. “New arrivals come here all the time, and they all bring news of the outside to us. Do you think the little story of our Prince Hans trying to take over a northern kingdom like a ruthless madman and failing miserably at his task would go untold?” 

Hans shot up and briskly turned his back on Noma, angry and hurt. “I’m pleased you find my greatest shame so amusing.,” he spat before marching into the barrack and to his pallet, where he lied and stared at the bottom of the tier above. 

A few minutes went by before Noma came after him, sitting on the edge of the bunk. 

“I’m sorry if I offended you. I have no...no censor for my mouth, and as you know, it runs away with my mind sometimes.”

Hans didn’t respond. 

“I should have known bringing that up in such a manner would be digging up a humiliating past for you,” Noma continued. “Please forgive me.”

Hans felt her hand move over his again. 

“Please understand that I didn’t mean to tease or upset you,” she insisted. “I’m sorry.”

After another moment of silence, Noma gave up, shedding a small tear from her left eye and getting up to leave. 

On a second though, Hans shot up from his bed and ran after her, catching her by the shoulder as he reached the doorway and turning her to face him. 

“I forgive you, and maybe one day I will explain everything to you,” he said softly. 

Noma smiled. Hans found himself reaching out and softly brushing away her tear with his thumb. 

“But now is not the time for that, for we have much to do,” Hans continued, allowing the moment to continue by lightly brushing his lips against her brow. He could feel Noma’s breath quicken as she pulled away from him, taking a half-step back. 

“Now is not the time for that either,” she replied.

Hans couldn’t understand why he felt his chest drop more than he thought it would, but he knew Noma was right.

“I should warn you, if the guards so much as sniff rebellion in the air, they will execute everyone involved,” Noma whispered, looking over her shoulder in case one was looking at her at that moment. 

“Have they done it before?” Hans asked. 

Noma nodded silently. “They purged an entire barrack once for it...they only spared the children. And that was over a plot to raid the food stores. I’m trying to say that it might not be so easy to convince everyone to come aboard.” 

“Then, perhaps, I can lead in with my good news,” Hans suggested. 

“Good news?”

“My brother is pulling rank and ordering that our rations be doubled for the next year,” he answered.

Noma stared in silence a moment, as if she had just been told she’d won a windfall and her freedom. 

“If...if you are lying to me…” she began. 

Hans shook his head, although he was unsure just how trustworthy his brother was. Was he making a deal with the devil, or making a sure bet? Or neither? Hans hardly knew a thing about Magnus, other than his sexuality and his hair color. Was this how desperate he was for salvation? 

The look in Noma’s hopeful eyes was enough to force Hans to brush aside his doubts and screw his courage to the sticking place.

“I promise I am not lying,” Hans replied. “It’s what I was told by my brother. If he goes back on his word, he will have me to deal with.” 

Noma looked insecurely at the ground, her shoulders dropping with doubt. “I don’t want to hope too much,” she admitted. “It sounds impossible.”

“Everything seems impossible in here,” Hans agreed. “You...you don’t even really know what it’s like, do you?”

While Hans knew this from before, it never sank into his mind that Noma had never eaten a roast turkey supper, run in a grassy field, slept on a goose feather pillow, or even slept past the sunrise. Looking down at her face, her eyes confused and not knowing what to think, Hans felt something inside him shudder. She’d never lived before. 

“I don’t,” Noma whispered, shrugging. She almost looked embarrassed to be admitting such a fact. 

Hans paused a moment, thinking of the perfect thing to say. “Well, Noma. When you and your family are free, tell me the first thing you wish to do, and I will see it done.” 

Noma pursed her lips together. “I heard from a new arrival once that there is such a thing called...sandwich?”

The way Noma spoke the word, combined with Noma’s youth and relative innocence stirred a cold feeling deep inside Hans for a moment or two. Suddenly, he felt himself fall back in time to a night long ago...where he pledged his loyalty in false pretense to another young woman with a fondness for sandwiches. 

Maybe this was it. The sign he needed to assure him that now was the time for his redemption. It was as if in a single word, Hans was finally certain that his call was at hand. He wanted to find his place in the world and atone for his sins? Yes, here was his purpose. Now was the time. 

“You...wish to eat a sandwich?”

Noma grinned. “Two pieces of bread with meat and vegetables inside! That is what that is, right?”

Hans once again took Noma;s hands in his, boldly this time. With purpose.

“I vow to you, Noma, that I will make you the largest, freshest, most delicious sandwich ever created in the Southern Isles.” 

Noma took no time enthusiastically accepting Hans’ declaration. “What must I do?”

“We’ll begin with uniting everyone in our own barrack. Tomorrow night after the fires are extinguished, we will meet.”


End file.
